They sat there in the dusk, Johnny and Mrs. Pugsley talking the visit over. They could hear Annie moving about in the kitchen, washing the dishes. After a while Dave Duggan got up and with painstaking and elaborate efforts not to attract attention went, with creaking, clumsy steps, into the kitchen. Annie stood by the sink, with her back to him. He heard her draw in her breath in a broken sob; and then he saw—he saw that tears were running down her face.
“Annie!” he said; “oh, now, Annie, don’t, don’t mind, Annie, dear!” He put out his hands beseechingly, his face red and wincing with feeling. Annie turned her shoulder toward him, and set her teeth. She drew her wrist across her eyes.
“It’s that dude’s hurt your feelin’s, Annie—darn him! but never you mind, he ain’t worth”—
“Oh, please go away, Dave,” Annie said; “you don’t know what you are talking about! Please go back to father.”
“Annie,” he burst out, “look here: he ain’t worth it. I say, Annie, will you take up with me?”
“I really don’t know what you are talking about. Mr. Temple—if you are referring to him—has not hurt my feelings in the least. I—I had something on my mind, and”—
“Oh, Annie,” poor Dave said, “what I’m wanting to know”—He stood there in his shirt-sleeves beside the sink, his voice trembling, one big red hand opening and shutting the hot-water spigot. “I’m just wanting to know if you’ll marry me, Annie. Say, now, will you?”
She shrank from him, a sort of horror in her face.
“You?”
“You ain’t mad?” he entreated.