“It seems so,” said Nancy; “in one sense it seems fair, and yet in another, dreadful. This is not my idea of a happy married life.”
“Never mind what your idea is; a happier husband and wife than you and I will never be found. Well, that is settled; we will be married by special licence next week.”
“So soon!” said Nancy.
“So late, you mean,” he answered, and stooping he pressed his lips to hers. “I hunger for you,” he said. “I cannot live any longer without you. We’ll be married next week by special licence. You have only a few more days to live in this horrid old Grange.”
“And you take me to the Bungalow?” she asked.
“To the Bungalow!” he repeated—he laughed. “Jove! child,” he said, “do you think that a comfortable home?—have I nothing better than that to offer my little girl?”
“I do not know,” she replied. “I shall be quite satisfied with any home with you—you are poor, are you not, Adrian?”
“Ah! now I shall surprise you,” he said. “I have a secret, after all, which I can confide to my little girl.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“I am a rich man, Nancy Follett; your betrothed is a gentleman of means.”