"Bonnibel, it was Leslie Dane, the poor young artist whom I have patronized this summer because I pitied him! Darling, he had the audacious impertinence to ask me for this little hand!" he lifted it from his shoulder, where it rested fondly, and pressed it to his lips.
But Bonnibel caught it away and started back from his side, her cheeks growing white and her blue eyes dilating.
"What did you say to him?" she inquired, breathlessly.
"I told him he was a worthless fortune-hunter, and I drove him forth with scorn and contempt," said the millionaire hotly.
"You did—you did!" she cried, horror and incredulity struggling in her voice and face. "You insulted him thus? Why, Uncle Francis, I love him!"
In those concluding words there was at once a protest and a defiance. It was as if she had felt and said that her love should have been a sufficient shield and protection for him it clung around so fondly.
"Pooh! nonsense!" said Arnold, trying a light tone of railery; "you are but a child, Bonnibel, you do not know what love means. Do you think I would suffer you to throw yourself away on that worthless fellow?"
"He is not worthless," she cried out warmly. "He is noble, good and true, and I love him dearly. But, Uncle Francis," she said, suddenly changing her indignant tone to one of gentle entreaty, "surely you are only jesting and teasing your little girl, and I beg you not to use such dreadful language again, for you insult the man whom I love with my whole heart, and whom I shall one day marry."
"Never! never!" he shouted madly. "Girl, you have been spoiled and indulged until you are silly enough to cry for the moon and expect me to pluck it from heaven for you! But I will save you from your folly this time. I will never permit you to marry Leslie Dane!"
It was the first time he had ever denied her anything in the course of her happy, care-free life. And now his cruel and resolute refusal of this new toy she wanted so much, absolutely stunned her and deprived her of speech.