She thought she hated him.

"You--you--" she broke out. "Jim Cleve, that ends you with me!"

"Reckon I never had a beginning with you," he replied, bitterly. "It
was worth a good deal ... I'm not sorry ... By Heaven--I've--kissed
you!"

He breathed heavily. She could see how pale he had grown in the
shadowy moonlight. She sensed a difference in him--a cool, reckless
defiance.

"You'll be sorry," she said. "I'll have nothing to do with you any
more."

"All right. But I'm not, and I won't be sorry."

She wondered whether he had fallen under the influence of drink. Jim
had never cared for liquor, which virtue was about the only one he
possessed. Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been
drinking. There was a strangeness about him, though, that she could
not fathom. Had he guessed his kisses would have that power? If he
dared again--! She trembled, and it was not only rage. But she would
teach him a lesson.

"Joan, I kissed you because I can't be a hangdog any longer," he
said. "I love you and I'm no good without you. You must care a
little for me. Let's marry ... I'll--"

"Never!" she replied, like flint. "You're no good at all."