"Please ... be generous. What will they think? Let us start," she begged.
"They will think something is wrong with the machinery. But it doesn't matter in the least what they think. It's my last chance, and I'll not give it up. You've got to answer me."
The point where the bucket had stopped was a hundred feet above the ground below. She looked down, and shuddered.
"It's so far down ... please."
"Then don't look down. Look at me, Moya. It won't take you a moment to answer me."
"I have. I said I couldn't marry you."
"Tell me that you don't love me and I'll give the signal."
"I ... don't."
"Look straight at me and say it."
She tried to look at him and repeat it, but her eyes betrayed the secret she was fighting to keep from him. The long lashes fell to the hot cheeks an instant too late.
His hand found hers. "My little Irish wild rose, all sweetness and thorns," he murmured.
Above the tumult of her heart she heard her voice say, as if it were that of a stranger, "It's no use ... I can't ... marry you."
"Because I'm a highgrader?"
She nodded.
"Do you think I'm worse than other men? Down in the bottom of your heart do you believe that?"
She smiled wanly. "Other men are not ... making love to me."
"Am I nothing but a thief to you?"
"I have told you that you are the man I ... love. Isn't that a good deal?"
The desire of her, pure as a flame, swept through him. "It's the greatest thing that ever came into my life. Do you think I'm going to let it end there? I'm going to fight for our happiness. I'm going to beat down the things that come between us."
"You can't. It's too late," she cried wistfully.
"It's never too late for love so long as we're both alive."
"Not for love, but...."
"You've got to see this as I see it, sweetheart. I'm a man--primitive, if you like. I've done wild and evil things--plenty of them. What of that? I slough them off and trample them down. The heart of me is clean, isn't it?"
"Yes."
To look at him was enough to clear away all doubt. He had the faults that go with full-blooded elemental life, but at bottom this virile American was sound.
"Well! Isn't that enough?"
The little movement of her hands toward him seemed to beg for pity. "Jack! I can't help it. Maybe I'm a little prig, but ... mustn't we guide our lives by principle and not by impulse?"
"Do I guide mine by impulse?"