He depended upon, watched for her; the maternal in her was so rapidly developed that at length Norval, from his dark place of helplessness, confided in her!
"Your voice is tired," he said one day; they had been reading Olive Schreiner's "Dreams."
"Oh, no, I'm not tired, only the little Lost Joy sort of filled me up." That was an expression of Jo's.
"But it's infernally true," Norval went on, "these 'Dreams' are about as gripping as anything I know of. If we cannot have exactly what we want in life, we are as blind as bats to, perhaps, the thing that is better than our wishes." Then, so suddenly that Donelle drew back in alarm, he asked:
"Are you a big young person, or a little one?"
"Why, I'm thin, but I'm quite tall." The voice was sterner than Mary Walden could have evolved.
"You think me rude, presuming?"
"Oh! no, Mr. Norval. I was only wishing I was, well—rather nicer to talk about."
Law, by the north window, went through a series of contortions that lightened the occasion.
"You know, here in the dark where I live now, one has to imagine a lot. Lately I've wanted to know exactly—exactly as words can portray, just how you look. Andy?"