“Oh, don't! Mine's a bad way—the worst kind of a way,” he cried.
“It makes everybody like you, and mine makes nobody like me.”
“It makes me like you, and that's quite enough. I don't want other people to like you!”
“Yes, that's what I mean!” cried Alice; and now she flung herself on his neck, and the tears came. “Do you suppose it can be very pleasant to have everybody talking of you as if everybody loved you as much—as much as I do?” She clutched him tighter and sobbed.
“O Alice! Alice! Alice! Nobody could ever be what you are to me!” He soothed and comforted her with endearing words and touches; but before he could have believed her half consoled she pulled away from him, and asked, with shining eyes, “Do you think Mr. Boardman is a good influence in your life?”
“Boardman!” cried Mavering, in astonishment. “Why, I thought you liked Boardman?”
“I do; and I respect him very much. But that isn't the question. Don't you think we ought to ask ourselves how others influence us?”
“Well, I don't see much of Boardy nowadays; but I like to drop down and touch earth in Boardy once in a while—I'm in the air so much. Board has more common-sense, more solid chunk-wisdom, than anybody I know. He's kept me from making a fool of myself more times—”
“Wasn't he with you that day with—with those women in Portland?”
Dan winced a little, and then laughed. “No, he wasn't. That was the trouble. Boardman was off on the press boat. I thought I told you. But if you object to Boardman—”