Into this shop he led her, and they took possession of a compartment, and ordered tea and muffins.

The shop was empty.

“It’s one of the expenses of relationship,” Anthony sighed, after probing Dahlia unsatisfactorily to see whether she intended to pay for both, or at least for herself; and finding that she had no pride at all.  “My sister marries your father, and, in consequence—­well! a muffin now and then ain’t so very much.  We’ll forget it, though it is a breach, mind, in counting up afterwards, and two-pences every day’s equal to a good big cannonball in the castle-wall at the end of the year.  Have you written home?”

Dahlia’s face showed the bright anguish of unshed tears.

“Uncle-oh! speak low.  I have been near death.  I have been ill for so long a time.  I have come to you to hear about them—­my father and Rhoda.  Tell me what they are doing, and do they sleep and eat well, and are not in trouble?  I could not write.  I was helpless.  I could not hold a pen.  Be kind, dear uncle, and do not reproach me.  Please, tell me that they have not been sorrowful.”

A keenness shot from Anthony’s eyes.  “Then, where’s your husband?” he asked.

She made a sad attempt at smiling.  “He is abroad.”

“How about his relations?  Ain’t there one among ’em to write for you when you’re ill?”

“He...  Yes, he has relatives.  I could not ask them.  Oh!  I am not strong, uncle; if you will only leave following me so with questions; but tell me, tell me what I want to know.”

“Well, then, you tell me where your husband banks,” returned Anthony.

“Indeed, I cannot say.”

“Do you,” Anthony stretched out alternative fingers, “do you get money from him to make payments in gold, or, do you get it in paper?”

She stared as in terror of a pit-fall.  “Paper,” she said at a venture.

“Well, then, name your Bank.”

There was no cunning in her eye as she answered:  “I don’t know any bank, except the Bank of England.”

“Why the deuce didn’t you say so at once—­eh?” cried Anthony.  “He gives you bank-notes.  Nothing better in the world.  And he a’n’t been givin’ you many lately—­is that it?  What’s his profession, or business?”

“He is...he is no profession.”

“Then, what is he?  Is he a gentleman?”

“Yes,” she breathed plaintively.

“Your husband’s a gentleman.  Eh?—­and lost his money?”

“Yes.”

“How did he lose it?”

The poor victim of this pertinacious interrogatory now beat about within herself for succour.  “I must not say,” she replied.

“You’re going to try to keep a secret, are ye?” said Anthony; and she, in her relief at the pause to her torment, said:  “I am,” with a little infantile, withering half-smile.

“Well, you’ve been and kept yourself pretty secret,” the old man pursued.  “I suppose your husband’s proud?  He’s proud, ain’t he?  He’s of a family, I’ll be bound.  Is he of a family?  How did he like your dressing up like a mill’ner gal to come down in the City and see me?”