Rowdy scented trouble and parried. “Men can't always get along agreeably together.”
“And you disagree with a man rather emphatically, I should judge. Harry said you knocked him down.” Politeness ruled her voice, but cheeks and eyes were aflame.
“I did. And of course he told you how he took a shot at me from a dark corner, outside.” Rowdy's eyes, it would seem, had kindled from the fire in hers.
“No, he didn't—but I—you struck him first.”
“Hitting a man with your fist is one thing,” said Rowdy with decision. “Shooting at him from ambush is another.”
“Harry shouldn't have done that,” she admitted with dignity. “But why wouldn't you take a drink with him? Not that I approve of drinking—I wish Harry wouldn't do such things—but he said it was an insult the way you refused.”
“Jessie—”
“Miss Conroy, please.”
“Jessie”—he repeated the name stubbornly—“I think we'd better drop that subject. You don't understand the case; and, anyway, I didn't come here to discuss Harry. Our trouble is long standing, and if I insulted him you ought to know I had a reason. I never came whining to you about him, and it don't speak well for him that he hot-footed over to you with his version. I suppose he'd heard about me—er—going to see you, and wanted to queer me. I hope you'll take my word for it, Jessie, that I've never harmed him; all the trouble he's made for himself, one way and another.
“But what I came over for to-day concerns just you and me. I wanted to tell you that—to ask you if you'll marry me. I might put it more artistic, Jessie, but that's what I mean, and—I mean all the things I'd like to say and can't.” He stopped and smiled at her, wistfully whimsical. “I've been three weeks getting my feelings into proper words, little girl, and coming over here I had a speech thought out that sure done justice to my subject. But all I can remember of it is just that—that I want you for always.”