Abruptly she started up—winced and paled as her sprained ankle stabbed with pain—but caught the wall and faced him in righteous wrath.
“Don’t you cuss me!” she blazed.
“Huh? I didn’t!”
“You did! You called me a dam-somethin’——”
“Oho! Fair damosel? Why, that’s an old-fashioned compliment—means ‘beautiful girl,’ or something like that. Would you rather be called a cross-eyed old maid?”
“No!” The word snapped. But she smiled in spite of herself.
“You must be a furriner to talk like that,” she added. “Why don’t you say what you mean? Dam-o-sell—that ain’t a name to call folks by. It’s ’most the same as what mom calls me.”
“What’s that?”
“Dambrat.”
He regarded her a moment in silence.