For a minute her voice broke, and she laid her face against his shoulder.
Mr. Thorndyke smothered a suppressed groan.
"O Jupiter! here it is! Tears, and scenes and hysterics. I knew how it would be, they all will do it, every chance. Norine!"—aloud and still impatient—"for pity's sake, don't cry—it's something I can't stand. Here! I'll throw my uncle, his fortune and favor, and all the hopes and ambitions of my life to the winds, and stay here, and bill and coo, all the rest of my life. If I can't go in peace I won't go at all."
She lifted her head as if he had struck her. Something in his tone, in his words, in his face, dried her tears effectually, at once and forever.
"I beg your pardon, Laurence," she said, suddenly, in an altered voice. "I won't cry any more. Shall I go and pack your valise now or leave it until to-morrow morning?"
He glanced at her uneasily. The dark, soft eyes looked far away seaward, the delicate lips had ceased to tremble, the small handsome face had grown resolutely still. What manner of woman he wondered, was this girl going to make?
"Norine! You are not offended?"
"Offended—with you, Laurence? No, that is not possible."
"You love me so much, Norine?"
"I have given you proof whether I love you or no. I am your wife."