“Don’t, Percy!  I do like beauty.  I have run after and made a fool of myself for years over pretty women, but I like your face, just as it is, better than any other woman’s face I ever knew.  If I could change you any way, I would not do it.  Your face is beautiful to me, though I know it is not a pretty one:  you are like sunlight to me.”  His voice shook, and he strained her slight form to him with a clasp that was positive pain.  “I said I would not change you, but I would if I might put that old love out of your heart for ever.  Why, in those far-off years when we were childish friends, did I not know my truest life lay in winning you?  It is strange!  I have never failed to gain the love I wanted until now, when I want the only one that would complete my life.  Dear Percy, love me all you can.  If there are things in me—­and I know there are many—­which turn you from me, tell me of them and I will change them if I can.”

“Oh, Ross, don’t, don’t!  I am not worthy of such words.”

“Oh, little Preciosa, I am glad to have even a little of your heart:  the half of your love has come to be more to me than the love of all the world besides.”

Do you think it was not agony for her to hear such words as these and make no response to them, fearing lest with assurance should come satiety?  And yet the knowledge of his growing love was very sweet to her, and worth the agony.

They settled down in their new home, and were purposely “out” to all callers during the next month—­then returned the cards that had been left for them.  As they grew accustomed to their new life, she thought to see his pleasure and interest in it wane as the novelty wore away, but it was not so.  That love of home which is, after all, the truest test of a really manly nature, seemed to grow upon him.  It was always so bright and cheery by their cozy fire, the glare of public rooms, the noise and glitter of theatres and concert-rooms, struck him with a feeling akin to disgust, after the soft, subdued light of his home, and his wife’s merry, breezy voice.  He sang and played for her, never giving a thought to her having any musical ability, since she never touched the instrument.  He read to her hour after hour, having at last discovered her taste and ability to understand the kind of books he relished, perfectly content if she would favor him by sitting near enough to him to let him pull down that wealth of “tresses brown,” a glossy cloud about her.

Of course this Arcadian life could not continue in the very heart of Sodom.  Society was not going to lose Ross Norval if he had made a fool of himself and married a little nobody.  So callers flowed in upon them, and Ross, having in boyish glee arrayed himself in purple and fine linen, took her in state to see his friends.

Of course her cousins and their friends hated her:  she had won their bonne louche, and the crimson of her plainness and poverty, of the having to “have Percy always around to please Uncle Rufus,” was pink to the enormity of her being Ross Norval’s wife.  And “why he married her,” and “of course he’s dead tired of her by this time,” were their politest surmises.