But, by the recurrence to that scene, he had checked her sensitive developing emotion.  She hung a moment in languor, and that oriental warmth of colour ebbed away from her cheeks.

“You are very kind,” said she.

Then he perceived in dimmest fashion that possibly a chance had come to ripeness, withered, and fallen, 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 rich.  If I had reflected at all, I must have seen that Uncle Anthony would never have carried so much through the streets.  I was like a fiend for money.  I must have been acting wrongly.  Such a craving as that is a sign of evil.”