"And"—he has the grace to hesitate a little—"it would make you very unhappy if we were forced to part, I suppose, Norry?"
"Part?" She starts, grows very white, and two dilated eyes turn to him. "Laurence, why do you ask me that? Unhappy? Mon Dieu! it would kill me—just that!"
He laughs a little, but uneasily, and shifts away from the gaze of the large, terrified eyes.
"Kill you? No, you're not the sort that die so easily. Don't look so white and frightened, child; I didn't mean anything, at least, not anything serious; only we have been almost a month here and it is about time I went to pay my respected Uncle Darcy a visit. He has taken to asking unpleasant questions of late—where I am, what I am doing, why I don't report myself at headquarters—meaning his house in New York. Norry, there's no help for it; I'll have to take a run up to New York."
She sits down suddenly, her hand over her heart, white as the dress she wears.
"Of course I need not stay long," Mr. Thorndyke pursues, his hat still over his eyes; "but go I must, there's no alternative. And then, perhaps, if I get a chance, I can break it to him gently—about you, you know. I hate the thought of leaving you, and all that—nobody more; but still, as I've told you, I'm absolutely depending upon him; the exchequer is running low and must be replenished. Conjugal love is a capital thing, but a fellow can't live on it. Love may come and love may go, but board goes on forever. You'll stay here with the two Waddles, do fancy work, read novels, and take walks, and you'll ever find the time slipping by until I am back. You don't mind, do you, Norine?"
"How long will you be gone?" she asks, in an odd, constrained sort of voice.
"Well, two or three weeks, perhaps. I shall have business to attend to, and—and all that. But I'll be back at the earliest possible moment, be sure of that."
She does not speak. She stands looking, with that white change in her face, over the sunny sea.
"Come, Norine!" he exclaims, impatiently, "you're not going to be a baby, I hope. If you love me, as you say you do—" She turns and looks at him, and he alters the phrase suddenly, with an uneasy laugh. "Well, since you love me so well, Norry, you must try and have a little common sense. Common sense and pretty girls are incompatible, I know; but really, my dear child, you can't expect that our whole lives are to be spent billing and cooing here. It would be very delicious, no doubt"—a great yawn stifles his words for an instant—"but—by Jove! who's this?"