“Is the Little Thing afraid the Pass’n will bite her? ’Twould be a wicked shepherd to bite a little lamb. And if he ever does such a thing,” she continued, “you go straight and tell your mamma.” And she dropped her head on Alice’s shoulder and stuck out her mouth like a three-year-old child.
“Incorrigible scamp!” cried Mary, between laughter-kisses that, like bubbles, exploded as they touched those pouting lips. “But, Alice, will you never be serious?”
“Serious?” replied Alice, rising. “I was never more serious in my life. It wouldn’t be right.”
“What wouldn’t be right?”
“For you to let the Pass’n bite you, without telling your mother,—and with those glittering teeth too! Think of it! Glittering teeth and starry eyes! Imagine! Most improper, upon my word!”—and she gave a toss of her shapely little head. “Mary,” said Alice, dropping again, suddenly, into her laughing friend’s lap,—“Mary, look me in the eyes!”
From her fine honest face, as well as from her voice,—both changeful as the dolphin’s hues,—had vanished in an instant all trace of raillery. Mary looked up with a smile half serious, half inquiring.
“Well?”
“Straight in the eyes!” repeated Alice, lifting her friend’s chin on the tip of her forefinger.
“I am looking.”
“Mary,” began Alice, leaning forward, and with that same forefinger daintily depressing the tip of Mary’s nose, “are—you—quite—sure—that—you—are—not—”