Once more Mrs. Desmond glanced at Nancy.
“I dare say he’s fagged out,” she answered. “Men mostly are when they come home from their work. Why not go and ask him yourself, Nora? You’re his favorite.”
A smile flashed into the girl’s face, in her eyes, on her lips, dimpling her cheeks. She had been beautiful before; she was absolutely lovely now.
“His favorite!” she repeated. “Mother, do you really think so? Of course, he pities me—everyone does; everyone is kind to me—but, apart from that, do you really, really think I am his favorite—in spite of my blindness?”
Mrs. Desmond rose, cross the room, put her hand upon the girl’s shoulder.
“I don’t think—I know,” she returned. “He thinks more of you than he thinks of anyone in the wide, wide world! That’s something to be proud of, Nora.”
She rose slowly, her little hands tightly clasped.
“Something to be very, very proud of!” she returned. “But how wonderful that is, mother!”
She moved across the room without stretching out her hands. No one who did not know would have supposed her to be blind.
“She will marry him, of course,” Nancy said, when she was out of hearing, “because she is blind; she never would if she could see!”