"But she isn't fond of me, as she used to be."
"Yes, of course she is, Norah." His arm was round her waist, and he lifted her upon his lap, and held her there. "We are both very fond of you."
"You are," she whispered. "I know that.... I should die if you ever turned so as not to care for me;" and she nestled against him.
"Norah."
With a last assumption of the fatherly manner he stooped and kissed her forehead. Then she raised her lips to his, and they kissed slowly.
"Norah," he muttered. "Oh, Norah."
He felt as though almost swooning from delight. It was a rapture that he had never known—a voluptuous joy that yet brought with it complete appeasement to nerves and pulses.
"Norah, Norah;" and he continued to kiss her lips and mutter her name.
All thought had gone. It was as though all that was trouble and pain inside him had melted into sweet streams of delight—streams of fire; but a magical flame that soothes and restores, instead of burning and destroying. He went on fondling her, glorying in her freshness, her immature grace, her youthful beauty. And she was silent and passive, yielding to his gentle movements, pressing close if he held her to him, relaxing the pressure and becoming limp if he wished to see her face and held her from him, making him understand by messages through every sense channel that she was his absolutely.
Then after a while she began to talk in the pretty birdlike whisper that enchanted and enthralled him.