Nora read silently in his haggard eyes the whole record of his suffering. It is a strange truth that this seemed the most beautiful thing she had ever looked upon; the sight of it was delicious. It seemed to whisper louder and louder that secret about Roger's heart.
Nora collected herself as solemnly as one on a deathbed making a will; but Roger was still in miserable doubt and dread. "I have followed you," he said, "in spite of that request in your letter."
"Have you got my letter?" Nora asked.
"It was the only thing you had left me," he said, and drew it forth, creased and crumpled.
She took it from him and thrust it into the pocket of her dress, never taking her eyes off his own. "Don't try and forget that I wrote it," she said. "I want you to see me burn it up, and to remember that."
"What does it mean, Nora?" he asked, in hardly audible tones.
"It means that I am a wiser girl to-day than then. I know myself better, I know you better. Roger!" she cried, "it means everything!"
He passed her hand through his arm and held it there against his heart, while he stood looking hard at the pavement, as if to steady himself amid this great convulsion of things. Then raising his head, "Come," he said; "come!"
But she detained him, laying her other hand on his arm. "No; you must understand first. If I am wiser now, I have learnt wisdom at my cost. I am not the girl you proposed to on Sunday. I feel—I feel dishonored!" she said, uttering the word with a vehemence that stirred his soul to its depths.
