"Yes."
"And you let me go without a word! By the Lord, I think I had the right to know."
Her lips trembled a little at the reproach in his tone; but she did not avert her eyes.
"Of course you had the right," she acknowledged with a flash of her old frankness. "But things were going crooked just then. It all seemed so strange, so difficult to speak of; and I thought if you were delayed it would save you from anxiety, not to know. Besides—I confess I knew it would mean . . . a great deal to you; and I wanted to win you all my own self, before I told you. There! That's the whole truth. Can you forgive me?"
"Forgive you, my darling? To-day of all days! I am at your feet."
She drew a deep breath. "That is quite wrong! But I can't pretend not to be proud of it; though in theory I object to pedestals as much as ever! And now——" she laid both hands upon him, her eyes full of laughter and tenderness. "Now—don't you want to come and see—the other woman?"
At that, his gravity went to pieces.
"Woman indeed! Bless her heart. Naturally I do. Hasn't she achieved a name yet?"
"No, poor little heathen. I told her she must wait for you; though the matter was settled long ago. What else could we call her—but Honor? And I pray she may be worthy of the name. Both the Desmonds will stand for her. I thought you would wish it; for, indeed, without their great goodness to us both she might never have found her way into the world at all! Now—come."
He raised her to her feet, and together they entered the room where, in a railed cot, the unconscious herald of a larger joy, a more sacred intimacy, lay sleeping:—a creature of flower-soft tints and curves, who, in the sublime wisdom of babyhood, was concerned for nothing on earth but her own inspired devices for self-development.