“This is a nice time o’ day for you to try to turn proper, Mollie Gillespie,” she told herself plainly. “Just because a chit of a girl goes daffy over you, is that any reason to change yore ways? You’d ought to have a lick o’ sense or two at yore age.”
But her derision was a fraud. She was tired of being whispered about. The independent isolation of which she had been proud had become of a sudden a thing hateful to her.
She went to Larson as he was leaving the hotel dining-room on his next visit to town.
“Want to talk with you. Come outside a minute.”
The owner of the Wagon Rod followed.
“Jim,” she said, turning on him abruptly, “you’ve always claimed you wanted to marry me.” Her blue eyes searched deep into his. “Do you mean that? Or is it just talk?”
“You know I mean it, Mollie,” he answered quietly.
“Well, I’m tired of being a scandal to Bear Cat. I’ve always said I’d never get married again since my bad luck with Hank Gillespie. But I don’t know. If you really want to get married, Jim.”
“I’ve always thought it would be better.”
“I’m not going to quit runnin’ this hotel, you understand. You’re in town two-three days a week anyhow. If you like you can build a house here an’ we’ll move into it.”