Norah would not answer.
"Ah, well." Dale got up from his chair, and stretched himself. "But you'll have to marry some day, you know."
"Oh, no, I shan't."
"Oh, yes, my dear, you will. That's a thing there's no harm for girls to think of, because it's what they've got to prepare themselves for." And Dale delivered a serious little homily on the duties and pleasures of wedlock, and concluded by telling Norah that when she had chosen an honest proper sort of young fellow, neither himself nor Mrs. Dale would stand in the way of her future happiness. "Yes, my dear, you'll leave us then; and we shall miss you greatly—both of us will miss you very greatly, but we shan't either of us consider that. And you mustn't consider it yourself. It's nature—quite proper and correct that under those circumstances you should leave us."
"Never," said Norah. "Never—unless you send me away;" and stooping her head on her arms, she began to cry.
"Oh, my dear, don't cry," said Dale bruskly. "What in the name of reason is there to cry about?"
"Then say you won't send me away," sobbed Norah. "Promise me you won't do that."
"Of course I won't," said Dale, in the same brusk tone. "That is, unless I'm morally certain that—"
"No, no—never."
"Oh, don't be silly. Dry your eyes, and be sensible;" and Dale, plunging his hands in his pockets, hurried out of the office.