“I—I would rather know,” pleaded Dora, whose curiosity was overmastering. 274
“But is your faith in me conditional? Is not my word enough?”
“It is enough for me, Dick—but it is the others—father, and—”
“Ah! I understand. But what do other people matter—now? You’re going to marry Ormsby, I understand.”
Dora looked down, and her hand trembled in his as she sought for words to explain a situation which was hardly explainable.
“Well—you see—Dick—they told me you were dead. We all gave you up as a lost hero.”
“Yet, before the grass had grown over my supposed grave, you were ready to transfer your love to—that cad.”
“Not my love, Dick—not my love! Believe me, I was broken-hearted. They said dreadful things about you, and I couldn’t prove them untrue, and I didn’t want everybody to think—Well, father pressed it. I was utterly wretched. I knew I should never love anybody else, dearest—nobody else in the world, and I didn’t care whom I married.”
It was the sweetest reasoning, and of that peculiarly feminine order which the inherent vanity of man cannot resist. Dick’s only rebuke was a kiss.
“Well, Dora, I’m not a marrying man, now. I’m not even respectable. As soon as I’m well, I’ve got 275 to disappear again. But the idea of your marrying Ormsby—”