I won't have his arm touch you, my darling." And he bent his cheek close to hers.
She looked at him from under her shadowed lids as she had looked at St.George when she greeted him at the foot of the stairs; a gleam of coquetry, of allurement, of joy shining through her glances like delicate antennae searching to feel where her power lay.

Should she venture, as her Uncle George had suggested, to take the reins in her own hands and guide this restive, mettlesome thoroughbred, or should she surrender to him?
Then a certain mischievous coquetry possessed her.
With a light, bubbling laugh she drew her cheek away.
"Yes, any kind of a dance that he or anybody else wants that I can give him," she burst out with a coquettish twist of her head, her eyes brimming with fun.
"But I'm on your card for every single dance," he demanded, his eyes again flashing.

"Look at it--I filled it up myself," and he held up his own bit of paste-board so she could read the list.

"I tell you I won't have his arm around you!" "Well, then, he sha'n't touch even the tips of my fingers, you dreadful Mr.Bluebeard." She had surrendered now.

He was never so compelling as when determined to have his own way.