"God bless and save us!" Jock rolled from side to side. "If you don't beat all for gol-durned sass. Why, Tate will sue you for damages if that great American novel ever strikes his vision. Oil! Thunderation; and poisonous whiskey, and doctored beer. Was it Society or Settlement what let light in on you, about such terms?"
"Neither. It's—inspiration."
"It's just plain imperdence, and it'll get you in trouble. Are you going to use names in that novel of yours?"
"Certainly not. Do you think I do not know my art? But you recognize Tate? Then he lives!"
"Good Lord! Know him? How under the everlasting firmament could I help knowing him? What other proprietor is there in St. Angé, you comical little bag of words? specially one as demoralizes the community with poisoned whiskey and doctored beer? Balls of fire! but this beats the band. Go on; go on."
When a man of thirty steps out of a starved exile and comes in contact with a girl like Constance Drew, it may be dangerous to "go on," but the exile will certainly want to.
Nothing loath; all sparkling and radiant, Constance swept along.
"And I've got—you, but maybe you will never forgive me. I took you at your—your worst—for don't you see when I use you—later—I'm going to redeem you and have you come out truly splendid."
Jock's jaw dropped, and the laugh fled from his overflowing eyes.
"Me?" he gasped. Constance nodded, and waved a pointed pencil toward him.