“What do you mean by laughing at me?” demanded Mr. Benton, smarting with mortification, as he strode across the street, trying to dry his hat with the help of his handkerchief, “Is this what you call friendship?”
“Excuse me,” gasped Paul, “but I really couldn't help it.”
“I don't see anything to laugh at,” continued Mr. Benton, in a resentful tone; “because I have been subjected to unmanly persecution, you must laugh at me, instead of extending to me the sympathy of a friend.”
“I suppose you won't think of her any more,” said Paul, recovering himself.
“Think of her!” exclaimed Mr. Benton, “would you have me tear her from my heart, because her mercenary parent chooses to frown upon our love, and follow me with base persecution.”
“Her parent!”
“Yes, it was he who threw the water upon me. But it shall not avail,” the young man continued, folding his arms, and speaking in a tone of resolution, “bolts and bars shall not keep two loving hearts asunder.”
“But it wasn't her father,” urged Paul, perceiving that Mr. Benton was under a mistake.
“Who was it, then?”
“It was the young lady herself.”