“Alice—”
“Here are your letters and remembrances, Mr. Mavering.” Dan mechanically received the packet she had been holding behind her; with a perverse freak of intelligence he observed that, though much larger now, it was tied up with the same ribbon which had fastened it when Alice returned his letters and gifts before. “Good-bye. I wish you every happiness consistent with your nature.”
She bowed coldly, and was about to leave him, as she had planned; but she had not arranged that he should be standing in front of the door, and he was there, with no apparent intention of moving.
“Will you allow me to pass?” she was forced to ask, however, haughtily.
“No!” he retorted, with a violence that surprised him. “I will not let you pass till you have listened to me—till you tell me why you treat me so. I won't stand it—I've had enough of this kind of thing.”
It surprised Alice too a little, and after a moment's hesitation she said, “I will listen to you,” so much more gently than she had spoken before that Dan relaxed his imperative tone, and began to laugh. “But,” she added, and her face clouded again, “it will be of no use. My mind is made up this time. Why should we talk?”
“Why, because mine isn't,” said Dan. “What is the matter, Alice? Do you think I would force you, or even ask you, to go home with me to live unless you were entirely willing? It could only be a temporary arrangement anyway.”
“That isn't the question,” she retorted. “The question is whether you've promised your mother one thing and me another.”
“Well, I don't know about promising,” said Dan, laughing a little more uneasily, but still laughing. “As nearly as I can remember, I wasn't consulted about the matter. Your mother proposed one thing, and my mother proposed another.”
“And you agreed to both. That is quite enough—quite characteristic!”