"Darling!" He tried to draw her into his arms, but she resisted him.
"Wait."
"What more, pretty penitent?"
"Yes. I want you to promise me that when I'm mad and want to do inconsistent things, and have my own way—when it's not good for me—I want you to promise me, no matter how much you love me—that you won't give in."
He laughed at her earnest little face. "I'm afraid I shall—I feel now as if I shall let you do anything, I love you so."
"Then I won't marry you. I've tried to control myself, but I can't, because everybody's so afraid of me. It makes me much worse. You're the first man I've ever taken seriously."
"Do you love me, Indiana?"
"No. I'm tired of the model farm—I'm tired of Grandma Chazy—I'm tired of Washington and New York, and I want to go to England." His expression sank at this frank avowal, only to change again at her next words. "I—I feel that marriage to me must mean the changing of every condition—or—" she looked imploringly into his anxious eyes, "I won't make a success of my life—and I want to be something more than I am—something better." She added quickly, "And, I wouldn't marry you, if I did not think I could love you—some day."
"I believe in the love which comes after marriage," he said firmly. "Given a fairly matched pair, the man the stronger, and there's no danger. I'm sure I shall make you love me."
"And you promise—"