"People don't always begin with that, do they? I mean—doesn't it come after they are married, sometimes?"
"Sometimes; but the risk is serious."
Emmie sighed.
"He is so nice," she said, "so very very nice and pleasant. And I do look up to him really, because he is so clever. I like him—oh, ever so much. It's almost a little like loving. Not like the sort of love I have for you, of course; because I don't think anything ever could be the same as that—but still—I do like to see him come in, and it would be very dull if he never came. Don't you think it would?"
"The question is not what I think, my dear."
"Well—I think it would—really. Do you know, mother, he didn't seem afraid about my answer!"
"No? He did not seem very eager or anxious, you mean?"
"No—not exactly—only so kind and pleasant. He saw I was in trouble, mother. And I do think it grieved him. And if he cares so much for me—And if I like him so much—"
"No true man could be satisfied with no more."
"Couldn't he?" with a look of childish sweetness. "But—" tears filling her eyes—"I'm afraid it does look rather tempting. Everything would be so different. Different for you and father. You would have plenty of friends."