Being braced to meet some sort of a storm, Maltham was rather put about by not encountering it. Ulrica certainly was looking the worse for her headache—her eyes were duller than usual, and there were dark marks under them, and she was very pale; but she did not seem to be at all excited, and the greeting that she gave him was out of the ordinary only in that she did not offer him her hand. He drew a quick breath, and the tense muscles of his mind relaxed. If she were taking it in that quiet way, he thought, he had worked himself into heroics for nothing. And then, quite naturally, he felt a sharp pang of resentment because she did take it so quietly. Her calmness ruffled his self-love.
As she remained silent, making no reference to Maltham's engagement, the Major felt that the proprieties of the case were not being attended to and prompted her. "I have been wishing Geo'ge joy and prospehrity, my deah," he said. "Have yo' nothing to say to him youahself about his coming happiness?"
"Yes," she answered slowly, "I have a great deal to say to him—so much that I am going to carry him off in the Nixie to say it." She turned to Maltham and added: "You will come with me for a last sail, will you not?"
Maltham hesitated, and then answered doubtfully: "Isn't it a little cold for sailing to-day? Your father says that you are not feeling well. I do think that it will be better not to go—unless you really insist upon it, of course."
"Yo' mustn't think of such a thing!" the Major struck in peremptorily. "The weatheh is like ice. Yo' will catch yo' death of cold!"
"It is no colder, father, than that day when I took George out in the Nixie for the first time—and it will do my head good," Ulrica answered. And added, to Maltham: "I do insist. Come!"
Against the Major's active remonstrance, and against Maltham's passive resistance, she carried her point. "Come!" she said again—and led Maltham out by the side door into the ragged garden. There she left him for a moment and returned to her father—who was standing in a very melancholy way before the fire.
"Do not mind, father," she said. "It is the best thing for me—it is the only thing for me."
He looked at her inquiringly, puzzled by her words and by her vehement tone. Suddenly she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Remember always, father, that I have loved you with my whole heart for almost my whole life long. And remember always," she went on with a curiously savage earnestness, "that I am loving you with my whole heart—with every bit of it—to-day!"