JIM. Why—I don't think I'd like a preacher of the Gospel if he was to do that. [Pause.] I—I never meant to say anything—but when men—other men—I mean anybody gets to payin' you attention, why, I'm afraid to keep still any longer—
KATE. [Turns away.] To keep still—
JIM. [Advances.] Yes, I've been sheriff here, an' whenever I've had anything to do, I've said to myself, now don't—do anything—ugly—'cause Kate—[KATE turns toward him; he qualifies tone.] some day, you know—Kate might think more of me if I hadn't done it. You know yourself that I quit drinkin' a year before the local option—on account of that essay you read, examination day—why, Kate, I care more for how you feel about anything than I do for anybody in the State of Mizzoura—that's just how it is. [Pause. KATE is silent.] You kin remember yourself when you was a little girl an' I used to take a horse-shoe an' tie it on the anvil an' make a side-saddle for you—an' I reckon I was the first fellow in Bowling Green that ever called you. Miss Kate when you come back from school.
KATE. [Rather tenderly.] I didn't want you to call me Miss Kate,
Jim.
JIM. Jes' fun, you know—an' now, Kate, when you're a woman, an' it's only nature for men to like you,—I've got to ask you myself.
KATE. [Pause.] I'm awful sorry you did it, Jim.
JIM. Sorry!
KATE. Yes, because I like you well enough, Jim—but—[Pause. Enter
JOE. KATE stops.
JOE. Say, Jim—
JIM. [Motioning JOE to silence.] Go on, Kate—I ain't ashamed of it—before Joe.