"Well, and where is it?"
"In Marathon," said Jane-Anne gravely. "Do you know it?"
"Yes," Mr. Wycherly replied, "and it is a curious thing that I was reminded of that very poem when I saw you dancing in the garden. I wonder why I didn't connect it with your mountains?"
"I often dance. I dance when I'm happy, and I dance when I'm very full of feelings, not exactly happy, but—big, tremendous feelings."
"Tell me, my child, what you think of 'Don Juan' as far as you have read."
"Poor dear," cried Jane-Anne, "he was so unfortunate. No sooner did he get comfortably settled with a nice, beautiful lady than some cross old husband or father, or somebody, interfered. It was a shame."
"Perhaps," Mr. Wycherly suggested, "there may have been something to say on their side, too, you know. Though it is a side less often treated by the writers of romance."
"Haidée's father was horrid," she cried vehemently. "You must think so, too, don't you?"
"Suppose," said Mr. Wycherly, "I went away for a long time, so long that you came to the conclusion I was dead——"
"I should die, too," Jane-Anne interrupted.