The yeoman’s pride struggled out in this obscure way to vindicate his unneighbourliness and the seclusion of his daughters from the society of girls of their age and condition; nor was it hard for Rhoda to assure him, as she earnestly did, that he had acted rightly.

Rhoda, assisted by Mrs. Sumfit, was late in the night looking up what poor decorations she possessed wherewith to enter London, and be worthy of her sister’s embrace, so that she might not shock the lady Dahlia had become.

“Depend you on it, my dear,” said Mrs. Sumfit, “my Dahly’s grown above him.  That’s nettles to your uncle, my dear.  He can’t abide it.  Don’t you see he can’t?  Some men’s like that.  Others ’d see you dressed like a princess, and not be satisfied.  They vary so, the teasin’ creatures!  But one and all, whether they likes it or not, owns a woman’s the better for bein’ dressed in the fashion.  What do grieve me to my insidest heart, it is your bonnet.  What a bonnet that was lying beside her dear round arm in the po’trait, and her finger up making a dimple in her cheek, as if she was thinking of us in a sorrowful way.  That’s the arts o’ being lady-like—­look sad-like.  How could we get a bonnet for you?”

“My own must do,” said Rhoda.

“Yes, and you to look like lady and servant-gal a-goin’ out for an airin’; and she to feel it!  Pretty, that’d be!”

“She won’t be ashamed of me,” Rhoda faltered; and then hummed a little tune, and said firmly—­“It’s no use my trying to look like what I’m not.”

“No, truly;” Mrs. Sumfit assented.  “But it’s your bein’ behind the fashions what hurt me.  As well you might be an old thing like me, for any pleasant looks you’ll git.  Now, the country—­you’re like in a coalhole for the matter o’ that.  While London, my dear, its pavement and gutter, and omnibus traffic; and if you’re not in the fashion, the little wicked boys of the streets themselves ’ll let you know it; they’ve got such eyes for fashions, they have.  And I don’t want my Dahly’s sister to be laughed at, and called ‘coal-scuttle,’ as happened to me, my dear, believe it or not—­and shoved aside, and said to—­’Who are you?’ For she reely is nice-looking.  Your uncle Anthony and Mr. Robert agreed upon that.”

Rhoda coloured, and said, after a time, “It would please me if people didn’t speak about my looks.”

The looking-glass probably told her no more than that she was nice to the eye, but a young man who sees anything should not see like a mirror, and a girl’s instinct whispers to her, that her image has not been taken to heart when she is accurately and impartially described by him.