"What picture?"
"For God's sake, at least be honest!" retorted Morgan passionately. "Whatever barbarities mountain men have, they are presumed to be outspoken and direct of speech."
"We generally aim to be. I'm asking you to be the same."
"Very well. I mean to marry Anne, who is my cousin—and whose social equal I am. It doesn't please me to have you confuse my father's welcome with the idea of free and easy liberty. Is that clear?"
Morgan was glaring up into Boone's eyes, since Boone stood several inches the taller, and Boone's fingers ached to take him by the neck and shake him as a terrier does a rat. The need of remembering whose son he was became a trying obligation.
"Does Anne—whose social equal you are—know—that you're going to marry her?" he inquired, with a quiet which should have warned Morgan had he just then been able to recognize warnings.
"Perhaps," was the curt rejoinder, and Boone laughed.
"No, Mr. Wallifarro," he said. "No—even that 'perhaps' is a lie. She doesn't so much as suspect it. As for me, I know you are not going to marry her."
Morgan had turned and walked around behind his desk, and as Boone added his paralyzing announcement, he threw open the drawer. "I aim to marry her myself—when I've made good—if she'll have me."
Morgan halted, half bent over, and his eyes burned madly.