McGregor went out of the house and stood in the half darkness on the veranda. When Mrs. Ormsby and Margaret followed he looked at the older woman and sensed her antagonism. The old love of battle swept in on him and he turned and stood in silence looking at her. “The fine lady,” he thought, “is no better than the women of the First Ward. She has an idea I will surrender without a fight.”
Out of his mind went the fear of the assurance and stability of Margaret's people that had almost overcome him in the house. The woman who had all her life thought of herself as one waiting only the opportunity to appear as a commanding figure in affairs made by her presence a failure of the effort to submerge McGregor.
On the veranda stood the three people. McGregor the silent became the talkative. Seized with one of the inspirations that were a part of his nature he threw talk about, sparring and returning thrust for thrust with Mrs. Ormsby. When he thought that the time had come for him to get at the thing that was in his mind he went into the house and presently came out carrying his hat. The quality of harshness that crept into his voice when he was excited or determined startled Laura Ormsby. Looking down at her, he said, “I am going to take your daughter for a walk in the street. I want to talk with her.”
Laura hesitated and smiled uncertainly. She determined to speak out, to be like the man crude and direct. When she had her mind fixed and ready Margaret and McGregor were already half way down the gravel walk to the gate and the opportunity to distinguish herself had passed.
McGregor walked beside Margaret, absorbed in thoughts of her. “I am engaged in a work here,” he said, waving his hand vaguely toward the city. “It is a big work and it takes a lot out of me. I have not come to see you, because I've been uncertain. I've been afraid you would overcome me and drive thoughts of the work out of my head.”
By the iron gate at the end of the gravel walk they turned and faced each other. McGregor leaned against the brick wall and looked at her. “I want you to marry me,” he said. “I think of you constantly. Thinking of you I can only half do my work. I get to thinking that another man may come and take you and I waste hour after hour being afraid.”
She put a trembling hand upon his arm and he thinking to check an attempt at an answer before he had finished, hurried on.
“There are things to be said and understood between us before I can come to you as a suitor. I did not think I should feel toward a woman as I feel toward you and I have certain adjustments to make. I thought I could get along without your kind of women. I thought you were not for me—with the work I have thought out to do in the world. If you will not marry me I'll be glad to know now so that I can get my mind straightened out.”