“Is there no freedom for a woman at all in this world?” Rhoda framed the bitter question.

Rhoda went back as she had come.  Algernon Blancove did the same.  Between them stood Robert, thinking, “Now I have made that girl hate me for life.”

It was in November that a letter, dated from London, reached the farm, quickening Rhoda’s blood anew.  “I am alive,” said Dahlia; and she said little more, except that she was waiting to see her sister, and bade her urgently to travel up alone.  Her father consented to her doing so.  After a consultation with Robert, however, he determined to accompany her.

“She can’t object to see me too,” said the farmer; and Rhoda answered “No.”  But her face was bronze to Robert when they took their departure.

CHAPTER X

Old Anthony was expecting them in London.  It was now winter, and the season for theatres; so, to show his brother-in-law the fun of a theatre was one part of his projected hospitality, if Mr. Fleming should haply take the hint that he must pay for himself.

Anthony had laid out money to welcome the farmer, and was shy and fidgety as a girl who anticipates the visit of a promising youth, over his fat goose for next day’s dinner, and his shrimps for this day’s tea, and his red slice of strong cheese, called of Cheshire by the reckless butter-man, for supper.

He knew that both Dahlia and Rhoda must have told the farmer that he was not high up in Boyne’s Bank, and it fretted him to think that the mysterious respect entertained for his wealth by the farmer, which delighted him with a novel emotion, might be dashed by what the farmer would behold.

During his last visit to the farm, Anthony had talked of the Funds more suggestively than usual.  He had alluded to his own dealings in them, and to what he would do and would not do under certain contingencies; thus shadowing out, dimly luminous and immense, what he could do, if his sagacity prompted the adventure.  The farmer had listened through the buzzing of his uncertain grief, only sighing for answer.  “If ever you come up to London, brother William John,” said Anthony, “you mind you go about arm-in-arm with me, or you’ll be judging by appearances, and says you, ‘Lor’, what a thousander fellow this is!’ and ’What a millioner fellow that is!’ You’ll be giving your millions and your thousands to the wrong people, when they haven’t got a penny.  All London ’ll be topsy-turvy to you, unless you’ve got a guide, and he’ll show you a shabby-coated, head-in-the-gutter old man ’ll buy up the lot.  Everybody that doesn’t know him says—­look at him! but they that knows him—­hats off, I can tell you.  And talk about lords!  We don’t mind their coming into the city, but they know the scent of cash.  I’ve had a lord take off his hat to me.  It’s a fact, I have.”