"I could kill him, Becky."
She laughed, ruefully. "For what? Perhaps he thinks I'm not a nice sort of girl—like the one you kissed——"
"For God's sake, Becky."
He sat down on a flat rock. He was white, and shaking a little. He wanted more than anything else in the wide world to kill George Dalton. Of course in these days such things were preposterous. But he had murder in his heart.
"I blame myself," Becky said, tap-tap, "I should have known that a man doesn't respect," tap-tap, "a woman he can kiss."
He took the riding crop forcibly out of her hands. "Look at me, look at me, Becky, do you love him?"
She whispered, "Yes."
"Then he's got to marry you."
But her pride was up. "Do you think I want him if he doesn't want—me?"