“Uh-huh.”
Jimmy swallowed heavily; he shifted uneasily. He wanted to put out a hand and touch her. Whenever he saw her he forgot that she was part Indian and daughter of his father’s enemy. Standing there in the moonlight, within half an arm’s reach of her, Jimmy hooked his thumbs over his belt and stared at her face.
“Dawn,” he said hoarsely, “Dawn, you’re beautiful.”
“Jimmy Moran, you—why say that?” She moved slightly away.
“Don’t go away,” he said slowly. “It’s all right, Dawn; I had to say that. It ain’t wrong to say what you think. No, I’m not drunk; I never was more sober in my life. I’ve never seen you in my life when I didn’t think you was the most beautiful girl I ever seen.”
“You mustn’t say that, Jimmy.”
“Why not? It may not mean anythin’ to you, but it does to me. Standin’ here like a danged idiot, tellin’ you things like that is like drinkin’ liquor. It kinda makes me dizzy. Funny, ain’t it? I’m scared to tell you things like that, and still I’m doin’ it. It’s like doin’ things when you’re drunk—mebby you hadn’t ought to, but you do it just the same.”
“Well,” said Dawn vaguely, “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Jimmy softly. “You’ve got to love to feel that way, Dawn.”
“To love?”