“Why? Because I should bully you into it. I'm an obstinate kind of creature, and get things by hanging on. Women give in if you worry them long enough. But tell me more about Tom,” he went on. “Did he dance and shoot his way into your heart? I wish I'd been there to see! You take a very bad tintype, by the way. Tom sent me that.” He got up, and taking a picture from the mantelpiece, tossed it into her lap, and leaning over the back of her chair, looked down on it. “Have you a sentiment about it?” he added, smiling. “It does look like Tom.”
She held it and gravely studied it. She colored, and, still looking at the picture, felt her way suddenly open. “Yes, it does look like him,” she said, and putting it down, leant forward and looked into the fire. “Do you want to know why I accepted Tom?” she added, slowly. She was fully launched on a career of deception now, and felt a desperate exultation.
Amory stared at her and nodded.
She kept her eyes on the fire. “I wanted—a home.”
Amory sat motionless, then spoke. “Why—why, weren't you happy with your aunt and uncle?”
She shook her head. “No; and Tom was good and kind and very—”
Amory got up and shook himself. “Oh, but that's an awful mistake,” he said.
“I know,” said the girl, and turning, looked at him a moment. “Well, I've come to tell you that I have—” She hesitated.
Amory slid down into the chair beside her. “Changed your mind?”
“Yes.”