“And now you take my hand.”

“Good night,” they uttered simultaneously; but Robert did not give up the hand he had got in his own.  His eyes grew sharp, and he squeezed the fingers.

“I’m bound,” she cried.

“Once!” Robert drew her nearer to him.

“Let me go.”

“Once!” he reiterated.  “Rhoda, as I’ve never kissed you—­once!”

“No:  don’t anger me.”

“No one has ever kissed you?”

“Never.”

“Then, I—­” His force was compelling the straightened figure.

Had he said, “Be mine!” she might have softened to his embrace; but there was no fire of divining love in her bosom to perceive her lover’s meaning.  She read all his words as a placard on a board, and revolted from the outrage of submitting her lips to one who was not to be her husband.  His jealousy demanded that gratification foremost.  The “Be mine!” was ready enough to follow.

“Let me go, Robert.”

She was released.  The cause for it was the opening of the door.  Anthony stood there.

A more astounding resemblance to the phantasm of a dream was never presented.  He was clad in a manner to show forth the condition of his wits, in partial night and day attire:  one of the farmer’s nightcaps was on his head, surmounted by his hat.  A confused recollection of the necessity for trousers, had made him draw on those garments sufficiently to permit of the movement of his short legs, at which point their subserviency to the uses ended.  Wrinkled with incongruous clothing from head to foot, and dazed by the light, he peered on them, like a mouse magnified and petrified.

“Dearest uncle!” Rhoda went to him.

Anthony nodded, pointing to the door leading out of the house.

“I just want to go off—­go off.  Never you mind me.  I’m only going off.”

“You must go to your bed, uncle.”

“Oh, Lord! no.  I’m going off, my dear.  I’ve had sleep enough for forty.  I—­” he turned his mouth to Rhoda’s ear, “I don’t want t’ see th’ old farmer.”  And, as if he had given a conclusive reason for his departure, he bored towards the door, repeating it, and bawling additionally, “in the morning.”

“You have seen him, uncle.  You have seen him.  It’s over,” said Rhoda.

Anthony whispered:  “I don’t want t’ see th’ old farmer.”

“But, you have seen him, uncle.”

“In the morning, my dear.  Not in the morning.  He’ll be looking and asking, ‘Where away, brother Tony?’ ’Where’s your banker’s book, brother Tony?’ ‘How’s money-market, brother Tony?’ I can’t see th’ old farmer.”

It was impossible to avoid smiling:  his imitation of the farmer’s country style was exact.

She took his hands, and used every persuasion she could think of to induce him to return to his bed; nor was he insensible to argument, or superior to explanation.