The rugged, boyish figure of Andy Slocum, clothed in riverman’s garb, confronted her.
“Why, I thought—” She hesitated, leaning against the door-frame.
“Oh, it’s me all right. On the job with both feet. I come up to have a talk with you.” He breathed heavily, and stared at her in a manner too direct to be natural, even for him.
“If it’s about me”—she began—“why, Andy, I can’t. I just can’t. You know that.”
“’T ain’t much of a reason, Nanette—‘just can’t.’ I’ve been comin’ to see you for more than a year now. What makes you say you ‘just can’t’? Ain’t I good enough for you?”
She smiled. Then her face became suddenly grave.
“Andy, I like you—I always liked you; but, honest now, Andy, do you think a man that comes straight from Jules’s place to ask a girl to marry him is going to quit drinking after he’s married?”
Slocum’s face flamed. “Who said I was at Jules’s place?”
She smiled again. “It didn’t need telling, Andy. You’re saying it plainer every minute. Besides,” she continued, “I saw you coming from Jules’s when I came from Tramworth with Joe Smeaton.”
Slocum laughed. “Joe Smeaton? Is it him?”