“It is not inappropriate, and I will not excuse you,” said Talbot, in a very winning voice. He had already gathered the scattered orange blossoms from the floor, and now he came up to her and said gently: “Nina, let me put these back, please.” She could have killed herself for yielding, but when he laid his hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder she could not say him nay. An electric thrill ran over her and she remained perfectly still and silent while he fastened the wax-white flowers again upon her corsage and in the soft curls of her hair, retaining a single one himself which he placed with the rose-bud and heliotrope upon his coat. While he was yet bending over her, dinner was announced, and drawing her white hand through his arm, he led her to the dining room. Miss Drusilla, who was waiting for them, studied the two faces anxiously. Talbot’s had certainly acquired a more animated expression, but Nina was very unlike herself, pale, _distrait_, almost proud. “What is the matter with the child? Is she already disappointed with her wretch of a husband?” the old maid wondered within herself. CHAPTER VII. PRIDE. Miss Drusilla’s wonder grew and grew when, after dinner, they all returned to the parlor, Nina treated her husband more distantly than she would have done an ordinary stranger. Her courtesy was all of the most stately fashion. She played at his request on the grand piano, but it was with automaton-like precision, and the brilliant pieces she selected had nothing sweet or tender in them. Miss Drusilla thought of the pathetic song “If” that was oftenest on the girl’s lips, and she marvelled within herself. “Perhaps it is only maidenly shyness, after all. His sudden coming has frightened the child,” she reflected. “He should have written.” And she said, on the impulse of the moment: “How was it, Talbot, that you did not write to apprise us of your coming?” “I did,” he replied. “And have you not received my letter?” “It is more than a year ago since we have received a line from you. We had begun to believe that you must have died abroad.” He flushed scarlet at her curt tone and sour look. “And you both believe me a villain of the deepest dye,” he said, flashing a swift look from her face to Nina’s. “But, indeed, I am not so bad as that. I wrote to you and Nina--not very often, for I received no replies--but at least several times within the last year. My last letter--dated from Baltimore two days ago--bade you expect me to-day.” “We did not receive it,” announced Miss Drusilla, with no abatement of her frigid air. “I see that you are skeptical on the subject,” he said, with some chagrin. “But I really wrote, although my letters have perhaps miscarried. But you, Aunt Drusilla, and you, Nina, might have written to say that you had not heard from me.” He looked across at the pale, beautiful face of his wife. She answered, almost inaudibly: “I wrote--often.”