He was ashamed to tell. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.”
“What?”
“Well, I don't know. That it seems so strange any one else should have any to do with it—my family and yours. But I suppose they must. Yes, it's all right.”
“Why, of course. If your family didn't like it—”
“It wouldn't make any difference to me,” said Dan resolutely.
“It would to me,” she retorted, with tender reproach. “Do you suppose it would be pleasant to go into a family that didn't like you? Suppose papa and mamma didn't like you?”
“But I thought they did,” said Mavering, with his mind still partly on the rope and the fluffy ball, but keeping his eyes away.
“Yes, they do,” said Alice. “But your family don't know me at all; and your father's only seen me once. Can't you understand? I'm afraid we don't look at it seriously enough—earnestly—and oh, I do wish to have everything done as it should be! Sometimes, when I think of it, it makes me tremble. I've been thinking about it all the morning, and—and—praying.”
Dan wanted to fall on his knees to her. The idea of Alice in prayer was fascinating.
“I wish our life to begin with others, and not with ourselves. If we're intrusted with so much happiness, doesn't it mean that we're to do good with it—to give it to others as if it were money?”