Jim Volsky's face had turned to a dark mottled red. His slim, well manicured hands were clenched at his sides.
"Y' mean," he questioned, and his voice had an ugly ring, "y' mean I ain't good enough fer yer?"
All at once the snobbishness had slipped, like a worn coat, from the shoulders of the girl. She was Rose-Marie Thompson again—Settlement worker. She was no better, despite the ancestors with gentle blood, than the man in front of her—just more fortunate. She realized that she had been not only unkind, but foolish. She tried, hurriedly—and with a great scare looking out of her wide eyes—to repair the mistake that she had made.
"I don't mean that I am better than you, Jim," she said softly, "not in the matter of family. We are all the children of God—we are all brothers and sisters in His sight."
Jim Volsky interrupted. He came nearer to Rose-Marie—so near that only a few inches of floor space lay between them.
"Don't yer go sayin' over Sunday-school lessons at me," he snarled. "I know what yer meant. Yer think I ain't good enough—t' marry yer. Well"—he laughed shortly, "well, maybe I ain't good enough—t' marry yer! But I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer—" All at once his hands shot out, closed with the strength of a vise upon her arms, just above her elbows. "I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer!" he repeated gloatingly.
Rose-Marie felt cold fear creeping through her veins. There was something clammy in Jim's touch, something more than menacing in his eyes. She knew that her strength was nothing to be pitted against his—she knew that in any sort of a struggle she would be easily subdued. And yet she knew that she would rather die than feel his lips upon hers. She felt an intense loathing for him—the loathing that some women feel for toads and lizards.
"Jim," she said slowly and distinctly, "let go of me this instant!"
The man was bending closer. A thick lock of his heavy hair had shaken down over his forehead, giving him a strangely piratical look.
"Not much I won't," he told her. "So I ain't good enough—"