“I'm afraid I don't love you well enough to marry you, Mr. Ogilvy,” Moira pleaded. “I'm truly fond of you, but—”
“The last boat's gone,” cried Mr. Ogilvy desperately. “I'm answered. Well, I'll not stick around here much longer, Moira. I realize I must be a nuisance, but I can't help being a nuisance when you're near me. So I'll quit my good job here and go back to my old game of railroading.”
“Oh, you wouldn't quit a ten-thousand-dollar job,” Moira cried, aghast.
“I'd quit a million-dollar job. I'm desperate enough to go over to the mill and pick a fight with the big bandsaw. I'm going away where I can't see you. Your eyes are driving me crazy.”
“But I don't want you to go, Mr. Ogilvy.”
“Call me Buck,” he commanded sharply.
“I don't want you to go, Buck,” she repeated meekly. “I shall feel guilty, driving you out of a fine position.”
“Then marry me and I'll stay.”
“But suppose I don't love you the way you deserve—”
“Suppose! Suppose!” Buck Ogilvy cried. “You're no longer certain of yourself. How dare you deny your love for me? Eh? Moira, I'll risk it.”