"I ought," he replied indignantly. "I ought to have done it long ago. Why not?"
Sally smiled at the table. "M—my father," she returned, not at all dismally, "would disgrace you—very likely. He's a d—"
He interrupted her. "I don't care what he is, Sally," he said softly. "I don't care about anything—but this."
"And my brother is a gambler," she went on, in a disgracefully happy voice, considering what she was saying,—"with not much hope that he will be anything else. I don't deceive myself."
"Only the greater reason," he said, more softly yet. "I want you, Sally."
"Do you? After that?"
"You may believe it—dearest."
She gave a sudden, happy little cry. "Oh, I believe it. I want to believe it. I have wanted to for more than two years—ever—since the night of the fire." She lifted her head, the tears shining in her eyes; something else shining there. "Then I don't care for—for Margaret—or—or anybody else; or any—any—thing"—her voice sank to a whisper once more—"but you."
Sally raised her eyes slowly to his. They were shy eyes, and very tender. And Fox looked into their depths and saw—but what he saw concerns only him and Sally. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. He held her closer. Sally's eyes filled slowly and overflowed at last, and she shut them.
"I'm crying because I'm so happy," she whispered.