“You know blame well I wouldn’t!” he declared, “An’ I’d a’licked ev’ry man in the place that dared to laugh or look sneerin’. I’d a’—”
“That’s just what I wanted to do,” said Desirée. “If I was cross inside, it wasn’t at you, dear boy.”
“I’ll win out on ’em yet,” growled Conover. “I made a mistake. An’ I’m ashamed of it. The only feller who’s never ashamed of his mistakes is a loonatic. And I ain’t a loonatic, by a long shot. I’m ashamed. But I’ll win.”
“Listen to me!” she demanded, “If there was a big, lovable, splendid child you knew and he insisted on going to play with children who hadn’t the sense to see how fine he was and what good company he could be, it wouldn’t make you angry at him, would it, if he got laughed at for not understanding their stiff, set ways? Of course not. But when he’d had his lesson and had burned his poor stubby fingers, wouldn’t it make you just the least little bit impatient if he began right away to plan to try his luck with those same horrid children again? Wouldn’t you be tempted to spank him or—?”
“You’re dead right, little girl,” he admitted, “An’ you’re a lot cleverer than I am. I—”
“Then you will give it up?” she urged.
“I can’t, Dey! Honest, I can’t. I couldn’t look myself in the face again if I let those gold-shirters beat me out. You see how it is, don’t you? I’m in to win. If I ever was to give up a fight, I could never win another. It’d take the ‘win’ out of me, for keeps. Please don’t make me do it, Dey!”
“All right!” she sighed, in comic despair, “It’s only for your own sake and because I care for you.”
“If it’s goin’ to make you unhappy or ashamed of me, I’ll give it up,” he said with slow resignation.
“No,” she forbade. “You needn’t feel that way about it. It doesn’t make me unhappy, except on your account. And I couldn’t be ‘ashamed’ of you if I tried all day. You know I couldn’t.”