“You are glad to see me again, Camille,” he murmured, happily. “Ah! this pays for the dreary days of absence from your side.”
Mrs. de Vere half withdrew herself at those words from her husband’s arms, and looking up at him, cried out, reproachfully.
“If you had loved me you would not have stayed so long!”
“Did you miss me, darling?”
She pouted mutinously as a school-girl for an instant, then, as if impelled to the truth in spite of herself, hung her graceful head and murmured, bashfully:
“Yes—bitterly.”
Norman de Vere’s dark eyes beamed with a sort of loving triumph as he answered:
“It was to win this sweet confession that I stayed behind. I know that in your heart you love me well, but when I am with you constantly you madden me with your caprices and humors, your unfounded jealousies and wounding suspicions. Why, you never give me a loving word or an involuntary caress, and you degrade yourself and me with such cruel charges as I can scarcely endure. But when I am away from you, you judge me more kindly, perhaps, and so I find an intoxicating welcome awaiting me. It was no business that detained me, my darling. Maddened by your coldness and distain, I remained away from you, hoping you would think more kindly of me and meet me with just this charming welcome,” drawing her again into his arms and kissing the curved red lips with eager passion.
She returned his kisses ardently, murmuring the while:
“You were cruel—I love you so—I can not bear you out of my sight! I will not bear it—your taming me by so cruel an absence—as if I were a real shrew!”