He clenched his fists that the knuckles stretched white.
"It's no go, eh?" he asked. "It's because of that. . . that German Baron—damn him. . ."
"You must not swear! I won't have it. You—you are rude and ill-bred and. . ."
"All right, all right!" Tom's temper was fast getting the better of him. "I understand all right. Your head has been turned by those—what does your father call them?—those brass-souled, saber-rattling coyotes. . ."
"Father doesn't know!"
"You bet your life he does! He knew them in his youth, He hasn't got a bit of use for those bragging, swaggering, square-head Dutch officers. . ."
She rose, fire in her eyes.
"You are insulting me," she cried. "I am a German myself!"
"Don't you believe it! You're a plain, every-day, field-and-garden American—just like me, just like your Dad—and that’s one of the many reasons why I'm so crazy about you."
"You—you are. . ." The girl was near to crying. "I hate you, hate you!"
"All right. I guess you’ve made up your mind to marry one of those jackanapes with their pink-and-green monkey jackets, the lightning conductor spikes on their helmets, their haw-haw manners and the bits of window glass stuck in their eyes. You. . ." quite suddenly he recollected himself. He bent his head, like a man submitting to the judgment of Fate, "I beg your pardon, Bertha. I lost my temper. God. . . I love you so. . ."
"I don't want to see you again. . . Never!"
"You won't!"
