“Oh, but I am. Just now I'm rather excited and—happy.”
“So glad!”
“Go on! go on! I like you to make fun of me.”
The benches on either side were filled with nursemaids in charge of baby-carriages, and of young children who were digging in the sand with their little beach shovels, and playing their games back and forth across the walk unrebuked by the indulgent policemen. A number of them had enclosed a square in the middle of the path with four of the benches, which they made believe was a fort. The lovers had to walk round it; and the children, chasing one another, dashed into them headlong, or, backing off from pursuit, bumped up against them. They did not seem to know it, but walked slowly on without noticing: they were not aware of an occasional benchful of rather shabby young fellows who stared hard at the stylish girl and well-dressed young man talking together in such intense low tones, with rapid interchange of radiant glances.
“Oh, as to making fun of you, I was going to say—” Mavering began, and after a pause he broke off with a laugh. “I forget what I was going to say.”
“Try to remember.”
“I can't.”
“How strange that we should have both happened to go to the Museum this morning!” she sighed. Then, “Dan,” she broke in, “do you suppose that heaven is any different from this?”
“I hope not—if I'm to go there.”
“Hush, dear; you mustn't talk so.”