“Well; as I was saying, you force him to think—­and there is no necessity for it.  He maybe as hard on this point as you say; but now and then a little innocent deception maybe practised.  We only require to gain time.  You place me in a very hard position.  I have a father too.  He has his own idea of things.  He’s a proud man, as I’ve told you; tremendously ambitious, and he wants to push me, not only at the bar, but in the money market matrimonial.  All these notions I have to contend against.  Things can’t be done at once.  If I give him a shock—­well, we’ll drop any consideration of the consequences.  Write to your sister to tell her to bring your father.  If they make particular inquiries—­very unlikely I think—­but, if they do, put them at their ease.”

She sighed.

“Why was my poor darling so upset, when I came in?” said he.

There was a difficulty in her speaking.  He waited with much patient twiddling of bread crumbs; and at last she said: 

“My sister called twice at my—­our old lodgings.  The second time, she burst into tears.  The girl told me so.”

“But women cry so often, and for almost anything, Dahlia.”

“Rhoda cries with her hands closed hard, and her eyelids too.”

“Well, that maybe her way.”

“I have only seen her cry once, and that was when mother was dying, and asked her to fetch a rose from the garden.  I met her on the stairs.  She was like wood.  She hates crying.  She loves me so.”

The sympathetic tears rolled down Dahlia’s cheeks.

“So, you quite refuse to see your father?” he asked.

“Not yet!”

“Not yet,” he repeated.

At the touch of scorn in his voice, she exclaimed: 

“Oh, Edward! not yet, I cannot.  I know I am weak.  I can’t meet him now.  If my Rhoda had come alone, as I hoped—! but he is with her.  Don’t blame me, Edward.  I can’t explain.  I only know that I really have not the power to see him.”

Edward nodded.  “The sentiment some women put into things is inexplicable,” he said.  “Your sister and father will return home.  They will have formed their ideas.  You know how unjust they will be.  Since, however, the taste is for being a victim—­eh?”

London lodging-house rooms in Winter when the blinds are down, and a cheerless fire is in the grate, or when blinds are up and street-lamps salute the inhabitants with uncordial rays, are not entertaining places of residence for restless spirits.  Edward paced about the room.  He lit a cigar and puffed at it fretfully.

“Will you come and try one of the theatres for an hour?” he asked.

She rose submissively, afraid to say that she thought she should look ill in the staring lights; but he, with great quickness of perception, rendered her task easier by naming the dress she was to wear, the jewels, and the colour of the opera cloak.  Thus prompted, Dahlia went to her chamber, and passively attired herself, thankful to have been spared the pathetic troubles of a selection of garments from her wardrobe.  When she came forth, Edward thought her marvellously beautiful.