“Where’s the foundation, if one of them’s sound?  Why, in the City.

“I’ll take you by our governor’s house.  You know—­you know—­don’t ye, Dahly, know we been suspecting his nephew? ’cause we saw him with you at the theatre.

“I didn’t suspect.  I knew he found you there by chance, somehow.  And I noticed your dress there.  No wonder your husband’s poor.  He wanted to make you cut a figure as one of the handsomes, and that’s as ruinous as cabs—­ha! ha!”

Anthony laughed, but did not reveal what had struck him.

“Sir William Blancove’s house is a first-rater.  I’ve been in it.  He lives in the library.  All the other rooms—­enter ’em, and if ’taint like a sort of, a social sepulchre!  Dashed if he can get his son to live with him; though they’re friends, and his son’ll get all the money, and go into Parliament, and cut a shine, never fear.

“By the way, I’ve seen Robert, too.  He called on me at the Bank.  Asked after you.

“‘Seen her?’ says he.

“‘No,’ I says.

“‘Ever see Mr. Edward Blancove here?’ he says.

“I told him, I’d heard say, Mr. Edward was Continentalling.  And then Robert goes off.  His opinion is you ain’t in England; ’cause a policeman he spoke to can’t find you nowhere.

“’Come,” says I, ’let’s keep our detectives to catch thieves, and not go distracting of ’em about a parcel o’ women.’

“He’s awfully down about Rhoda.  She might do worse than take him.  I don’t think he’s got a ounce of a chance now Religion’s set in, though he’s the mildest big ’un I ever come across.  I forgot to haul him over about what he ’d got to say about Mr. Edward.  I did remark, I thought—­ain’t I right?—­Mr. Algernon’s not the man?—­eh?  How come you in the theatre with him?”

Dahlia spoke huskily.  “He saw me.  He had seen me at home.  It was an accident.”

“Exactly how I put it to Robert.  And he agreed with me.  There’s sense in that young man.  Your husband wouldn’t let you come to us there—­eh? because he...why was that?”

Dahlia had it on her lips to say it “Because he was poorer than I thought;” but in the intensity of her torment, the wretchedness of this lie, revolted her.  “Oh! for God’s sake, uncle, give me peace about that.”

The old man murmured:  “Ay, ay;” and thought it natural that she should shun an allusion to the circumstance.

They crossed one of the bridges, and Dahlia stopped and said:  “Kiss me, uncle.”

“I ain’t ashamed,” said Anthony.

This being over, she insisted on his not accompanying her farther.

Anthony made her pledge her word of honour as a married woman, to bring her husband to the identical spot where they stood at three o’clock in the afternoon of Sunday week.  She promised it.

“I’ll write home to th’ old farmer—­a penny,” said Anthony, showing that he had considered the outlay and was prepared for it.