“Oh, excuse me! I'd much rather do it for you,” cried Dan; but Alice looked so grave, so hurt, that he hastened on: “How in the world does it concern others whether we are devoted or not, whether we're harmonious and two-souls-with-but-a-single-thought, and all that?” He could not help being light about it.
“How?” Alice repeated. “Won't it give them an idea of what—what—of how much—how truly—if we care for each other—how people ought to care? We don't do it for ourselves. That would be selfish and disgusting. We do it because it's something that we owe to the idea of being engaged—of having devoted our lives to each other, and would show—would teach—”
“Oh yes! I know what you mean,” said Dan, and he gave way in a sputtering laugh. “But they wouldn't understand. They'd only think we were spoons on each other; and if they noticed that I cooled off toward people I'd liked, and warmed up toward those you liked, they'd say you made me.”
“Should you care?” asked Alice sublimely, withdrawing a little from his arm.
“Oh no! only on your account,” he answered, checking his laugh.
“You needn't on my account,” she returned. “If we sacrifice some little preferences to each other, isn't that right? I shall be glad to sacrifice all of mine to you. Isn't our—marriage to be full of such sacrifices? I expect to give up everything to you.” She looked at him with a sad severity.
He began to laugh again. “Oh no, Alice! Don't do that! I couldn't stand it. I want some little chance at the renunciations myself.”
She withdrew still further from his side, and said, with a cold anger, “It's that detestable Mrs. Brinkley.”
“Mrs. Brinkley!” shouted Dan.
“Yes; with her pessimism. I have heard her talk. She influences you. Nothing is sacred to her. It was she who took up with those army women that night.”