“That’s right.  Because, a father and a sister—­haven’t they a claim?  Think a while.  They’ve had a terrible time.  And it’s true that you’ve consented to a husband, Dahlia?  I’m glad, if it is; and he’s good and kind.  Right soul-glad I am.”

While he was speaking, her eyelids lifted and her eyes became fixed on him in a stony light of terror, like a creature in anguish before her executioner.  Then again her eyelids dropped.  She had not moved from her still posture.

“You love him?” he asked, in some wonderment.

She gave no answer.

“Don’t you care for him?”

There was no reply.

“Because, Dahlia, if you do not I know I have no right to fancy you do not.  How is it?  Tell me.  Marriage is an awful thing, where there’s no love.  And this man, whoever he is—­is he in good circumstances?  I wouldn’t speak of him; but, you see, I must, as your friend—­and I’m that.  Come:  he loves you?  Of course he does.  He has said so.  I believe it.  And he’s a man you can honour and esteem?  You wouldn’t consent without, I’m sure.  What makes me anxious—­I look on you as my sister, whether Rhoda will have it so or not; I’m anxious because—­I’m anxious it should be over, for then Rhoda will be proud of the faith she had in you, and it will lighten the old man’s heart.”

Once more the inexplicable frozen look struck over him from her opened eyes, as if one of the minutes of Time had yawned to show him its deep, mute, tragic abyss, and was extinguished.

“When does it take place, Dahlia?”

Her long underlip, white almost as the row of teeth it revealed, hung loose.

“When?” he asked, leaning forward to hear, and the word was “Saturday,” uttered with a feeble harshness, not like the gentle voice of Dahlia.

“This coming Saturday?”

“No.”

“Saturday week?”

She fell into a visible trembling.

“You named the day?”

He pushed for an indication of cheerful consent to the act she was about to commit, or of reluctance.

Possibly she saw this, for now she answered, “I did.”  The sound was deep in her throat.

“Saturday week,” said Robert.  “I feel to the man as a brother, already.  Do you live—­you’ll live in the country?”

“Abroad.”

“Not in Old England?  I’m sorry for that.  But—­well!  Things must be as they’re ordered.  Heigho!  I’ve got to learn it.”

Dahlia smiled kindly.

“Rhoda will love you.  She is firm when she loves.”

“When she loves.  Where’s the consolation to me?”

“Do you think she loves me as much—­as much”

“As much as ever?  She loves her sister with all her heart—­all, for I haven’t a bit of it.”

“It is because,” said Dahlia slowly, “it is because she thinks I am—­”

Here the poor creature’s bosom heaved piteously.