within the late scoffing seconds of time.
Enraged at his blindness, and careful, lest he had wrongly guessed, not
to expose his regret (the man was a lover), he remarked, both truthfully
and hypocritically: "I've always thought you were born to be a lady."
(You had that ambition, young madam.)

She answered: "That's what I don't understand." (Your saying it, O my
friend!)

"You will soon take to your new duties." (You have small objection to
them even now.)

"Yes, or my life won't be worth much." (Know, that you are driving me to
it.)

"And I wish you happiness, Rhoda." (You are madly imperilling the
prospect thereof.)

To each of them the second meaning stood shadowy behind the utterances.
And further,--

"Thank you, Robert." (I shall have to thank you for the issue.)

"Now it's time to part." (Do you not see that there's a danger for me in
remaining?)

"Good night." (Behold, I am submissive.)

"Good night, Rhoda." (You were the first to give the signal of parting.)

"Good night." (I am simply submissive.)

"Why not my name? Are you hurt with me?"

Rhoda choked. The indirectness of speech had been a shelter to her,
permitting her to hint at more than she dared clothe in words.

Again the delicious dusky rose glowed beneath his eyes.

But he had put his hand out to her, and she had not taken it.

"What have I done to offend you? I really don't know, Rhoda."

"Nothing." The flower had closed.

He determined to believe that she was gladdened at heart by the prospect
of a fine marriage, and now began to discourse of Anthony's delinquency,
saying,--

"It was not money taken for money's sake: any one can see that. It was
half clear to me, when you told me about it, that the money was not his
to give, but I've got the habit of trusting you to be always correct."

"And I never am," said Rhoda, vexed at him and at herself.

"Women can't judge so well about money matters. Has your uncle no account
of his own at the Bank? He was thought to be a bit of a miser."

"What he is, or what he was, I can't guess. He has not been near the Bank
since that day; nor to his home. He has wandered down on his way here,
sleeping in cottages. His heart seems broken. I have still a great deal
of the money. I kept it, thinking it might be a protection for Dahlia.
Oh! my thoughts and what I have done! Of course, I imagined him to be
rich. A thousand pounds seemed a great deal to me, and very little for
one who was