“I was going to ask, Mr. Collins, if you think you can bully me.”
“It might be a first rate thing for you if I did, Miss Mackenzie. All your life you haven’t done anything but trample on sissy boys. Now, I expect I’m not a sissy boy, but a fair imitation of a man, and I shouldn’t wonder but you’d find me some too restless for a door-mat.” His maimed hand happened to be resting on the saddle horn as he spoke, and the story of the maiming emphasized potently the truth of his claim.
“Don’t you assume a good deal, Mr. Collins, when you imply that I have any desire to master you?”
“Not a bit,” he assured her cheerfully. “Every woman wants to boss the man she’s going to marry, but if she finds she can’t she’s glad of it, because then she knows she’s got a man.”
“You are quite sure I am going to marry you?” she asked gently—too gently, he thought.
“I’m only reasonably sure,” he informed her. “You see, I can’t tell for certain whether your pride or your good sense is the stronger.”
She caught a detached glimpse of the situation, and it made for laughter.
“That’s right, I want you should enjoy it,” he said placidly.
“I do. It’s the most absurd proposal—I suppose you call it a proposal—that ever I heard.”
“I expect you’ve heard a good many in your time.