"No; not your father."
"Maybe"—the bitterness of Mrs. Cummings' slight impelled it—"maybe you don't think she's good enough."
"Dallas! No! No!" He put out a hand to her.
She retreated.
"There's a reason." He let his arm fall. "And it is fair and square. I'm proud of it, too, and you must hear it." His tone was significant, tender.
No hint of his meaning suggested itself to her. "Then I want to know it," she said.
"I didn't intend to tell you," he began, "at least for a while. When I was at the shack last I made up my mind it wouldn't do any good. I said to myself, 'You keep quiet.' But"—he plucked off his hat and sent it whirling to the gun—"I guess you'll have to know now. Dallas, the reason—is you."
"Me?" The question was a cry.
Lounsbury waited, standing very still before her. Then reaching out again, he touched her hand. "You," he said quietly.
Again she retreated.