"Sure he is. Say, Kate," he changed his attitude as lightly as he did his subject—uncrossed his legs, squared himself in his chair and threw his elbows on the table.
She met the new disposition with a tone of prudent reserve: "What is it?"
"When are you going to do something for a lonesome old scout?" he asked bluntly.
With as little concern as possible, she put down her knife and fork, and, with her hands seeking her napkin, looked at him. "What do you mean?" she returned collectedly, "by 'doing something'?"
"Marry me."
"Never."
The passage was disconcertingly quick. Van Horn, thrown quite aback, remonstrated. His discomfiture was so undisguised that Kate was embarrassed. The next moment he was very angry. "If that's the case," he blurted out, "what's the use o' my sticking around here fighting your battles?"
"You're not fighting my battles."
"Maybe you don't call 'em your father's, either," he exclaimed scornfully.
"They're your own battles," declared Kate. "You know that as well as I do."