Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any other little hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of being made, by any other little toe, asked the astounding question—
“Is he rich, father?”
A mixture of surprise and annoyance marked the old man’s tone and look as he replied—
“Why, what has that got to do with it?”
“Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of those gay young fellows who haven’t got two sixpences to rub against each other, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of all the silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laid your lessons to heart?”
“Tut, child, don’t talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a mere matter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is—Are you fond of him?”
“Well, no, father, I can’t exactly say that I—”
“I knew it! I was sure of it! The presumptuous puppy!” shouted the old man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with its innumerable contents, and striding towards the door.
“Stay, father!” said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbade him to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and grace that love forbade him to resist. “I don’t admire him, and I’m not fond of him,” continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she grasped her parent’s hands; “these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I love him, father—I adore him—I—”
She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turn her eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring at them with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all his mouth—to say nothing of his ears!