"Sure, that's what I'm doin'," gasped Peg. "I'm cryin'—laughin'."
Alaric suddenly checked his mirth and said seriously:
"'Course ye must know, cousin, that I've nothin' to offer you except a life-long devotion: a decent old name—and—my career—when once I get it goin'. I only need an incentive to make no end of a splash in the world. YOU would be my incentive." Peg could hardly believe her ears. She looked at Alaric while her eyes danced mischievously.
"Go on!" she said. "Go on. Sure, ye're doin' fine!"
"Then it's all right?" he asked fervently.
"Faith! I think it's wondherful."
"Good. Excellent. But—there are one or two little things to be settled first."
Even as the victorious general, with the capitulated citadel, it was time to dictate terms. Delays in such matters, Alaric had often been told, were unwise. A clear understanding at the beginning saved endless complications afterwards.
"Just a few little things," he went on, "such as a little OBEDIENCE—that's most essential. A modicum of care about ORDINARY things,—for instance, about dress, speech, hair, et ectera—and NO 'Michael.'"
"Oh!" cried Peg dejectedly, while her eyes beamed playfully: