"Strong?" he muttered. "That's the question. Am I?"
"Of course you are! I'm sure you are. You must be. It was that which compelled my—which made me—" She paused, and a swift blush swept over her face from forehead to throat—"made me propose to you, there on the cliff, when the steamer came."
"That a lady should have loved me like that!" he murmured. "I still can't believe it was true! My little girl, it's not possible—not possible!"
"You say 'loved,'" she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped before his ardent gaze; her scarlet face bent downward; she held out her hands to him in timid surrender.
He caught them between his big palms, but not to draw her to him. A jagged mark on her round wrist caught his eye. It was the scar of a vicious thorn. The last time he had seen it was on the cliff top,—that other time when she put out her arms to him. He bent over and kissed the red scar.
"Jenny," he replied in bitter self-reproach, "here's another time I've proved I'm not in your class—not a gentleman. You've raised a point—the real point. Am I what you think me? You think I'm at least a man. Am I?"
She looked up at him, her face suddenly gone white again. "Tom! You don't mean—?"
"About my being strong. All that you've seen so far are my leading suits. There's that other to be reckoned with yet. I told your father I hadn't touched a drop since the wreck. But you know how it was before."
"Yes, dear, but that was before!"
"I know. Things are different now. I've something at stake that'll help me fight. You can't guess, though, how that craving—Lucky I'll have Jimmy, as well, to back me up. He's great when it comes to jollying a fellow over the bumps. He'll help."