“Better than life—than truth itself—than everything.”
“And my own past,” said Lorison, with a note of solicitude—“can you forgive and—”
“I answered you that,” she whispered, “when I told you I loved you.” She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him. “If I had not told you about myself, would you have—would you—”
“No,” he interrupted; “I would never have let you know I loved you. I would never have asked you this—Norah, will you be my wife?”
She wept again.
“Oh, believe me; I am good now—I am no longer wicked! I will be the best wife in the world. Don’t think I am—bad any more. If you do I shall die, I shall die!”
While he was consoling, her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous. “Will you marry me to-night?” she said. “Will you prove it that way. I have a reason for wishing it to be to-night. Will you?”
Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the outcome: either of importunate brazenness or of utter innocence. The lover’s perspective contained only the one.
“The sooner,” said Lorison, “the happier I shall be.”
“What is there to do?” she asked. “What do you have to get? Come! You should know.”