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—­”

“I don’t.  You mustn’t think I object to people when I ask you about them.  All that I wished was that you should think yourself what sort of influence he was.  I think he’s a very good influence.”

“He’s a splendid fellow, Boardman is, Alice!” cried Dan.  “You ought to have seen how he fought his way through college on such a little money, and never skulked or felt mean.  He wasn’t appreciated for it; the men don’t notice these things much; but he didn’t want to have it noticed; always acted as if it was neither here nor there; and now I guess he sends out home whatever he has left after keeping soul and body together every week.”

He spoke, perhaps, with too great an effect of relief.  Alice listened, as it seemed, to his tone rather than his words, and said absently—­

“Yes, that’s grand.  But I don’t want you to act as if you were afraid of me in such things.”

“Afraid?” Dan echoed.

“I don’t mean actually afraid, but as if you thought I couldn’t be reasonable; as if you supposed I didn’t expect you to make mistakes or to be imperfect.”

“Yes, I know you’re very reasonable, and you’re more patient with me than I deserve; I know all that, and it’s only my wish to come up to your standard, I suppose, that gives me that apprehensive appearance.”

“That was what vexed me with you there at Campobello, when you—­asked me—­”

“Yes, I know.”

“You ought to have understood me better.  You ought to know now that I don’t wish you to do anything on my account, but because it’s something we owe to others.”

“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.