She knew his yea was yea; still she missed a certain quality in what he said—a certain something (she could not say what) in his tone.
She inhaled a long breath as she drew away from him.
“You are a strange man—a very, very strange man. Do you know it? All these many months you have shunned me; yet now you ask me to cast my lot with yours. Why?”
“Because I find I want you—at last.”
His answer seemed to satisfy her.
“For how long?” she asked.
Just for the imperceptible part of a second he hesitated. His answer would be another unbreakable link in the chain he was forging for himself. Only the fraction of a second, though, he paused. Then his reply came, firm and decided:
“Forever, Gloria, if you will have it so.”
For answer she dropped her head on her folded arms while a dry, hard sob forced its way through her lips. It struck upon the chord within him that always thrilled to the sight or sound of anything, even remotely, touching grief. This sudden, unexpected joy of hers was so near akin to sorrow—ay, and she had had much sorrow, God knows! in her misspent life—it was cause enough for calling forth the gentle touch he laid upon her bowed head.
“Don’t, Gloria, girl! Don’t! It isn’t worth this, believe me. Yet, if you come, you shall never have cause for regret, if there’s anything left in a man’s honor.”