"What's it matter how I get it," he snarled, "long's I get it! What business is it of yers how I come by my coin? I ain't stagin' a investergation. And"—his face softened suddenly, "an' yer wouldn't understand, anyhow! Yer only a girl—a little kid! What's it matter how I gets th' roll—long as I'm willin' ter spend it on m' sweetie? What's it matter?" He made a movement as if to take her into his arms—"What's it matter?" he questioned again.
Like a flash Rose-Marie was upon her feet. With a swing of her body she had evaded his arms. Her face was white and drawn, but her mind was exceptionally active—more active than it had ever been in all of her life. She knew that Jim was in a difficult mood—that a word, one way or the other, would make him as easy to manage as a kitten or as relentless as a panther, stalking his prey. She knew that it was in her power to say the word that would calm him until the return of his mother and his sister. And yet she found it well-nigh impossible to say that word.
"I'm tired of deceit," she told herself, as she stepped back in the direction of the door. "I'll not say anything to him that isn't true! … Nothing can happen to me, anyway," she assured herself. "This is the twentieth century, and I'm Rose-Marie Thompson. This is a civilized country—nothing can hurt me! I'm not afraid—not while God is taking care of me!"
Jim had straightened up. He seemed, suddenly, to tower.
"Well," he growled, "how about it? When'll we be married?"
Rose-Marie raised her head gallantly.
"We won't ever be married, Jim Volsky!" she told him, and even to her own surprise there was not the suggestion of a quaver in her voice. "We won't ever be married. I'm surprised at you for suggesting it!"
The man stared at her, a moment, and his eyes showed clearly that he did not quite understand.
"Yer mean," he stammered at last, "that yer t'rowing me down?"
Rose-Marie's head was still gallantly lifted.