“She's a cat, Dan,” said his mother quietly, and not without liking, when he looked in for his goodnight kiss after the rest were gone; “a perfect tabby. But your Alice is sublime.”
“O mother—”
“She's a little too sublime for me. But you're young, and you can stand it.”
Dan laughed with delight. “Yes, I think I can, mother. All I ask is the chance.”
“Oh, you're very much in love, both of you; there's no doubt about that. What I mean is that she's very high strung, very intense. She has ideals—any one can see that.”
Dan took it all for praise. “Yes,” he said eagerly, “that's what I told you. And that will be the best thing about it for me. I have no ideals.”
“Well, you must find out what hers are, and live up to them.”
“Oh, there won't be any trouble about that,” said Dan buoyantly.
“You must help her to find them out too.” He looked puzzled. “You mustn't expect the child to be too definite at first, nor to be always right, even when she's full of ideals. You must be very patient with her, Dan.”
“Oh, I will, mother! You know that. How could I ever be impatient with Alice?”