outh.

My heart leaped exultantly. I had him!

"Mr. Blythe," I began in a winningly modulated voice, and, at the same
instant, he sprang from his camp-chair, his face distorted.

"There are onions in this salad!" he yelled. "What the devil do you mean!
Are you trying to poison me! What are you following me about for, anyway?
Why are you running about under foot every minute!"

"My dear Mr. Blythe," I protested--but he barked at me, kicked over the
bucket of salad, and began to dance with rage.

[Illustration: "Kicked over the bucket of salad, and began to dance
with rage."]

"What's the matter with you, anyway!" he bawled. "Why are you trying to
feed me? What do you mean by trying to be attentive to me!"

"I--I admire and revere you--"

"No you don't!" he shouted. "I don't want you to admire me! I don't
desire to be revered! I don't like attention and politeness! Do you hear!
It's artificial--out of date--ridiculous! The only thing that recommends
a man to me is his bad manners, bad temper, and violent habits. There's
some meaning to such a man, none at all to men like you!"

He ran at the salad bucket and kicked it again.

"They all fawned on me in Boston!" he panted. "They ran about under foot!
They bought my pictures! And they made me sick! I came out here to be rid
of 'em!"

I rose from the grass, pale and determined.

"You listen to me, you old grouch!" I hissed. "I'll go. But before I go
I'll tell you why I've been civil to you. There's only one reason in the
world: I want to marry your daughter! And I'm going to do it!"

I stepped nearer him, menacing him with outstretched hand:

"As for you, you pitiable old dodo, with your bad manners and your worse
pictures, and your degraded mania for prunes, you are a necessary evil
that's all, and I haven't the slightest respect for either you or your
art!"

"Is that true?" he said in an altered voice.

"True?" I laughed bitterly. "Of course it's true, you miserable dauber!"

"D-dauber!" he stammered.

"Certainly! I _said_ 'dauber,' and I mean it. Why, your work would shame
the pictures on a child's slate!"

"Smith," he said unsteadily, "I believe I have utterly misjudged you.
I believe you are a good deal of a man, after all--"

"I'm man enough," said I, fiercely, "to go back, saddle my mule, kidnap
your daughter, and start for home. And I'm going to do it!"

"Wait!" he cried. "I don't want you to go. If you'll remain I'll be very
glad. I'll do an