'No chance of that,' roared Mr Prothero, advancing towards Netta, taking her by the arm, and looking as if a few more of her rejoinders would bring her a good shaking. 'Do you mean to promise, miss?'
'Father, you're hurting me,' said Netta petulantly. 'You needn't pinch me so.'
Mr Prothero relaxed his hold. He doated on this obstinate, pretty, wilful child of his—the only girl, and whose temper was the very facsimile of his own.
'It's you're hurting me most, Netta, by rushing into certain misery. Will you promise?'
Again he took hold of the arm.
'One would think you were a Papist, father, and this the Inquisition,' said Netta, growing learned under the torture of her father's grasp,
'Well said, Netta,' broke in Mr Jonathan, aroused by any allusion to any subject out of the present. 'A cruel court that perhaps more properly called Jesuitical than Papistical.'
Mr Prothero gave Netta a slight shake, which shook more passion into both of them, and frightened Mrs Prothero.
'Once for all, Netta, will you promise to give up that scamp of a cousin of yours, Howel Jenkins?' roared the father.
'I won't promise anything at all,' replied Netta doggedly; and freeing herself from her father, she ran to her uncle as if for protection.