"You kind little wife!" he said. "It’s worth all the fatigue and worry just to come back and be spoilt. What a long time it seems since we were alone and since you ’fussed’ over me, as you used to call it." There was no reproach or complaint in his voice, and yet she felt reproached. She lifted her face to his and kissed him remorsefully. "Have I neglected you, Wolff?" "Not a bit, dear. I only meant—of course, one can’t go on being newly married for ever, but it has its charm to go back and pretend; hasn’t it?" "You talk as though we had been married for years!" she said in a troubled tone. "And it is scarcely seven months." "Seven months can be a long time," he answered gravely. "It all depends on what happens." She had her head against his shoulder, and suddenly, she knew not why nor how, she was transported back to that magic hour when he had first taken her in his arms and an unhoped for, unbelievable happiness had risen above her dark horizon. In a swift-passing flash she realised that this was the man for whom she had fought, who had been everything to her, without whom life had been impossible, and that now he was hers, her very own, and that she had been cruel, unfaithful, and ungrateful. She flung her arms impetuously about his neck and drew his head down till it rested against her own. "Oh, Wolff, Wolff!" she cried. "Are you so very disappointed in me? Has it only needed six months to show you what a hopeless little failure I am?" "You—a failure?" He passed his hand gently over her hair. "You could never be a failure, and I should be an ungrateful fellow to talk of ’disappointment.’ You are just everything I thought and loved, my English Nora." The name aroused her, startled her even. Was it only because it emphasised what had already passed unspoken through her mind, or was it because it seemed to have a pointed significance, perhaps an intended significance? "Why do you call me ’English Nora’?" she asked, with an unsteady laugh. "I am not English any more. I am your wife, Wolff, and you are _ein guter Deutscher_, as you say." He nodded, his eyes fixed thoughtfully in front of him. "Yes, I am German, bone and blood," he said. "That’s true enough. And you are my wife. I wonder, though——" He stopped, and then suddenly he bent and lifted her like a child in his arms and carried her to the big chair opposite. "Now I can see you better," he said quietly. "I want to ask you something which your face will tell me better than your words." He had fallen on one knee beside her and was looking her earnestly in the eyes. She bore his scrutiny, but only with a strong effort of the will. She felt that he was looking straight into the secret places of her heart, that he was reading the pain that her words, "I am not English any more," had caused her and how little they were true. "Tell me," he said, "are you happy, Nora? Are you not the one who is disappointed?" "I? Wolff, how should I be? how could I be?"