"How old are you, Billy?" she questioned, with a suddenness and
irrelevance as disconcerting as his first words had been.

"Twenty-two," he answered.

"I am twenty-four."

"As if I didn't know. When you left the orphan asylum and how old
you were, how long you worked in the jute mills, the cannery, the
paper-box factory, the laundry--maybe you think I can't do
addition. I knew how old you was, even to your birthday."

"That doesn't change the fact that I'm two years older."

"What of it? If it counted for anything, I wouldn't be lovin'
you, would I? Your mother was dead right. Love's the big stuff.
It's what counts. Don't you see? I just love you, an' I gotta
have you. It's natural, I guess; and I've always found with
horses, dogs, and other folks, that what's natural is right.
There's no gettin' away from it, Saxon; I gotta have you, an' I'm
just hopin' hard you gotta have me. Maybe my hands ain't soft
like bookkeepers' an' clerks, but they can work for you, an'
fight like Sam Hill for you, and, Saxon, they can love you."

The old sex antagonism which she had always experienced with men
seemed to have vanished. She had no sense of being on the
defensive. This was no game. It was what she had been looking for
and dreaming about. Before Billy she was defenseless, and there
was an all-satisfaction in the knowledge. She could deny him
nothing. Not even if he proved to be like the others. And out of