He did not retort. He simply held out his hands to her.
"Nora, you can't think it gives me pleasure to spoil anything for you. Won't you trust me? Won't you give me your promise?"
She looked at him; she was honest enough to acknowledge to herself that he had been right, but above all, his patience, his quiet tone of pleading had moved and softened her.
"I give you my promise, Wolff."
"Thank you, dear. Goodness knows, I will try and make it up to you in all I can."
He kissed her, and then suddenly she drew away from him.
"You don't need to make up for it. And I think, after all, I won't go to the Hulsons."
He looked at her in blank surprise. He had sold his favourite horse to satisfy her needs, he had humbled his pride, laid himself open to the accusation of being a "place-hunter" in order to be able to lead her into the brilliant world after which she had once craved, and now that the sacrifices had been brought she would have none of them. He did not understand—as how should he have done?—that she saw in his action an attempt to bribe her, in his gift a sweetmeat offered to a disappointed child. He felt, instead—though he would not have admitted it even in his thoughts—that she had been capricious, inconsiderate.
He turned away and went over to the writing-table, throwing down the two letters with a gesture of weariness.
"We must go now, whether we want to or not," he said. "I have worried for the invitation, and it is impossible to refuse. The Selenecks would have every right to be offended."