If I should meet her out somewhere, and she even _looked_ a dare--I'll confess one thing: for a whole week I was mighty shy of riding out where I would be apt to meet her; and you can call me a coward if you like.
Still, I had schemes, plenty of them.

I wanted her--Lord knows how I wanted her!--and I got pretty desperate, sometimes.

Once I saddled up with the fixed determination of riding boldly--and melodramatically--into King's Highway, facing old King, and saying: "Sir, I love your daughter.
Let bygones be bygones.

Dad and I forgive you, and hope you will do the same.

Let us have peace, and let me have Beryl--" or something to that effect.
He'd only have done one of two things; he'd have taken a shot at me, or he'd have told me to go to the same old place where we consign unpleasant people.