A woman’s instinct at red heat pierces the partial disingenuousness which Robert could only have avoided by declaring the doubts he entertained.  Rhoda desired simply to be supported by his conviction of her sister’s innocence, and she had scorn of one who would not chivalrously advance upon the risks of right and wrong, and rank himself prime champion of a woman belied, absent, and so helpless.  Besides, there was but one virtue possible in Rhoda’s ideas, as regarded Dahlia:  to oppose facts, if necessary, and have her innocent perforce, and fight to the death them that dared cast slander on the beloved head.

Her keen instinct served her so far.

His was alive when she refused to tell him what had taken place during their visit to London.

She felt that a man would judge evil of the circumstances.  Her father and her uncle had done so:  she felt that Robert would.  Love for him would have prompted her to confide in him absolutely.  She was not softened by love; there was no fire on her side to melt and make them run in one stream, and they could not meet.

“Then, if you will not tell me,” said Robert, “say what you think of your father’s proposal?  He meant that I may ask you to be my wife.  He used to fancy I cared for your sister.  That’s false.  I care for her—­yes; as my sister too; and here is my hand to do my utmost for her, but I love you, and I’ve loved you for some time.  I’d be proud to marry you and help on with the old farm.  You don’t love me yet—­which is a pretty hard thing for me to see to be certain of.  But I love you, and I trust you.  I like the stuff you’re made of—­and nice stuff I’m talking to a young woman,” he added, wiping his forehead at the idea of the fair and flattering addresses young women expect when they are being wooed.

As it was, Rhoda listened with savage contempt of his idle talk.  Her brain was beating at the mystery and misery wherein Dahlia lay engulfed.  She had no understanding for Robert’s sentimentality, or her father’s requisition.  Some answer had to be given, and she said,—­

“I’m not likely to marry a man who supposes he has anything to pardon.”

“I don’t suppose it,” cried Robert.

“You heard what father said.”

“I heard what he said, but I don’t think the same.  What has Dahlia to do with you?”

He was proceeding to rectify this unlucky sentence.  All her covert hostility burst out on it.

“My sister?—­what has my sister to do with me?—­you mean!—­you mean—­you can only mean that we are to be separated and thought of as two people; and we are one, and will be till we die.  I feel my sister’s hand in mine, though she’s away and lost.  She is my darling for ever and ever.  We’re one!”

A spasm of anguish checked the girl.

“I mean,” Robert resumed steadily, “that her conduct, good or bad, doesn’t touch you.  If it did, it’d be the same to me.  I ask you to take me for your husband.  Just reflect on what your father said, Rhoda.”