He continued to stroke her hair in silence. At last he said sententiously, "I hope to marry one of these days."
"I wish you would do it now," Nora went on. "If only she would be nice! We should be sisters, and I should take care of the children."
"You are too young to understand what you say, or what I mean. Little girls should not talk about marriage. It can mean nothing to you until you come yourself to marry,—as you will, of course. You will have to decide and choose."
"I suppose I shall. I shall refuse him."
"What do you mean?"
But, without answering his question, "Were you ever in love, Roger?" she suddenly asked. "Is that your romance?"
"Almost."
"Then it is not about me, after all?"
"It is about you, Nora; but, after all, it is not a romance. It is solid, it is real, it is truth itself; as true as your silly novels are false. Nora, I care for no one, I shall never care for any one, but you!"
He spoke in tones so deep and solemn that she was impressed. "Do you mean, Roger, that you care so much for me that you will never marry?"
He rose quickly in his chair, pressing his hand over his brow. "Ah, Nora," he cried, "you are very painful!"
If she had annoyed him she was very contrite. She took his two hands in her own. "Roger," she whispered gravely, "if you don't wish it, I promise never, never, never to marry, but to be yours alone,—yours alone!"
