"How splendid winter is, after all!" she exclaimed; "look at those crystallized hemlocks—did you ever see anything so beautiful? I sometimes wonder how I can find it so dreary."
"You do find it dreary, then?"
"Oh, so dreary—so long—so humdrum—so dull!" She checked herself with one of her pretty French gestures. "It seems ungrateful to say so, but I can't help it. Life seems hardly worth the living sometimes here."
"Here! Would it be better elsewhere?"
"Yes—I think so. Change is always pleasant. One grows dull and stupid living in one dull stupid place forever. Change is what I want, novelty is delight."
"Let me offer it to you then, Norine. Come to New York with me."
"Mr. Gilbert! With you!"
"With me—as my wife, I love you, Norine."
It was said. The old formula, the commonplace words that are to tell all that is in a heart full to overflowing. He sat very pale, beyond that and a certain nervous twitching of his face there was nothing to tell that all the happiness of his life hung on her reply. For her—she just looked at him blankly, incredulous—with wide open eyes of wonder.
"Your wife! Marry you! Mr. Gilbert!"