“Never!” he cried, standing up. “So that’s what has caused this talk? I’ll not let my future wife sing at a county fair with painted dancers and half-drunken fakirs! What do you think I am?”
“I’m not your wife yet,” she retorted, angry youth rising to face angry youth, and tender love quite helpless between them! “I’ve written and promised—I just posted the letter.”
“You didn’t even ask me!” he accused.
“Why should I ask you?”
“Because I love you! I’d ask you about anything I was going to do, you know that. How much did he offer you? I’ll double it, if you say no.”
She shook her head. “If you gave me five hundred dollars, I’d not be bribed. It isn’t the money. It’s the joy of singing to people—but you can’t understand.”
“You belong to me and you shall not do it!” The Birge temper was gaining control of the good-natured, generous boy. “Do you hear me?”
“I belong to whom I choose! Don’t look at me like that! Do you think I’ll marry a man so narrow-minded that he refuses me the chance to sing in respectable fashion? Better women than I have done so.” The Precore temper was matching the Birge temper without hesitation.
“I won’t give my consent,” Dan said in a dangerous tone. “If you sing at that fair, by God—I—I won’t marry you!” Then his face went white as soon as he had spoken. “Oh, no, of course I,” he began piteously, “Thurley—listen—don’t do it, will you—”
Thurley’s eyes were closed for a moment. She saw in tempting panorama the old coupé with Miss Clergy saying good-by and adding, “I am rich and lonesome and—”