Dan laughed. “I'm afraid we do, Alice; I always supposed one ought to hide that little preference as much as possible. You don't want me to be dangling after you every moment?”
“No-o-o. But not—dangle after others.”
Dan sighed a little—a little impatiently. “Do I dangle after others?”
“Of course not. But show that we're thoroughly united in all our tastes and feelings, and—like and dislike the same persons.”
“I don't think that will be difficult,” said Dan.
She was silent a moment, and then she said; “You don't like to have me bring up such things?”
“Oh yes, I do. I wish to be and do just what you wish.”
“But I can see, I can understand, that you would sooner pass the time without talking of them. You like to be perfectly happy, and not to have any cares when—when you're with me this way?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do,” said Dan, laughing again. “I suppose I rather do like to keep pleasure and duty apart. But there's nothing you can wish, Alice, that isn't a pleasure to me.”
“I'm very different,” said the girl. “I can't be at peace unless I know that I have a right to be so. But now, after this, I'm going to do your way. If it's your way, it'll be the right way—for me.” She looked sublimely resolved, with a grand lift of the eyes, and Dan caught her to him in a rapture, breaking into laughter.