“You make nice distinctions,” said Allegra, gently disengaging herself from his arm, and looking at him with a faint, shy smile, very doubtful, yet very anxious to believe. “I am dreadfully afraid that all this fine talk means nothing more than you would say to any of your partners, if you happened to be sitting out a waltz.” “Should I ask any of my partners to be my wife, do you think?” “Oh, you can withdraw that to-morrow--forget and ignore it. We may both consider it only a kind of under-the-mistletoe declaration, meaning no more than a mistletoe kiss. I believe when English people were domestic and kept Christmas, the head of the family would have kissed his cook if he had met her under the mistletoe.” “Allegra, is it not cruel of you to be jocose when I am so tremendously serious?” “What if I don’t believe in your seriousness?” “Is this only a polite way of refusing me?” he asked, beginning to be offended, not understanding that this nonsense-talk was a hasty defence against overpowering emotion, that she was not sure of him, and was desperately afraid of betraying herself. “Am I to understand that you don’t care a straw for me?” “No, no, no,” she cried eagerly, “as a friend, I like you better than any one else in the world; only I don’t want to give you more than friendship till I can trust you well enough to believe in your love.” “Prove it, Allegra,” he cried, clasping her waist again before she was aware. “Put me to any test or any trial--impose any duty upon me. Only tell me that if I come through the ordeal you will be my wife.” “You are not in a great hurry to fetter yourself, I hope?” she said. “I am in a hurry--I long for those sweet fetters by which your love will hold me. I want to be anchored by my happiness.” “Give me a year of freedom, a year for art and earnest work in Italy, a year for Martin and Isola, who both want me; and if this night year you are still of the same mind, I will be your wife. I will not engage you. You may be as free as air to change your mind and love some one else; but I will promise to be true to you and to this talk of ours till the year’s end--one year from to-night.” “I accept your sentence, though it is severe; but I don’t accept my freedom. I am your slave for a year. I shall be your slave when the year is out. I am yours, and yours alone for life. And now give me that cup of tea, Allegra, which you have not poured out yet, and let us fancy ourselves Darby and Joan.” “Darby and Joan,” echoed Allegra, as she filled his cup. “Must we be like that: old and prosy, sitting by the fire, while life goes by us outside? It seems sad that there should be no alternative between slow decay and untimely death.”