Although he felt he ought to tower down at her in conventional, jealous rage, Dan seated himself meekly beside her. “Why, I didn’t mean it that way! Only you’re never late and I worried. I was afraid you were hurt. You are going to be my wife and I’ve the right to ask questions. What’s wrong, dear? Your eyes are like stars and your cheeks as pink as your dress! You look as if you’d found some one you liked better than you do me,” he could not refrain from adding. “Do you know I’m terribly envious of any one you like at all? I’d like to lock away all your smiles for myself.” “Silly,” reproached Thurley, as she trailed a stick in front of Zaza. “As if I couldn’t have personal errands. I don’t go asking you where you are every minute in the day—” “I’d rather you did than to seem not to care.” He tried to put his arm around her, but she drew away. “Don’t! It’s terribly childish to make love at every fence corner. Let’s be dignified—not boy and girl style! I don’t like it any more.” “You used to,” he objected. “Oh, no, it was just the young of me that liked excitement. There isn’t any excitement at the Corners unless the gods happen to favor one. I’ve been thinking for a long time I should not have been so lazy as I am, staying at Granny’s and hardly earning my ‘keep.’” “Have you been reading more silly books?” “Dan, suppose we quarreled! Well, just suppose we did—and Miss Clergy, the funny old lady at the Fincherie, took it into her head that she wanted to give me a chance to learn how to sing and talk and dance and all the things that are just crying inside of me to be learned! Oh, Dan, dear, don’t look like that! I’m just supposing. And suppose I decided to let her take me to New York—and our engagement was broken, would you care so terribly?” The latent maternal in Thurley was asking the question; it lacked the usual ruse of the vapid coquette. He looked as if he scarcely comprehended what she had said. Then he answered, “Don’t suppose that way. Something inside me would just _die_.” Thurley’s handsome eyebrows drew together in a straight line. “Dan,” she added a moment later, “I’ve promised Rufus Westcott, the county fair manager, to sing at the South Wales fair every night. Do you mind?” “Never!” he cried, standing up. “So that’s what has caused this talk? I’ll not let my future wife sing at a county fair with painted dancers and half-drunken fakirs! What do you think I am?” “I’m not your wife yet,” she retorted, angry youth rising to face angry youth, and tender love quite helpless between them! “I’ve written and promised—I just posted the letter.” “You didn’t even ask me!” he accused. “Why should I ask you?” “Because I love you! I’d ask you about anything I was going to do, you know that. How much did he offer you? I’ll double it, if you say no.” She shook her head. “If you gave me five hundred dollars, I’d not be bribed. It isn’t the money. It’s the joy of singing to people—but you can’t understand.”