“A brute’s a lucky dog, then, for I’ve got you!”

“Will you touch me?”

“You’re in my power.”

“It’s a miserable thing, Robert.”

“Why don’t you struggle, my girl?  I shall kiss you in a minute.”

“You’re never my friend again.”

“I’m not a gentleman, I suppose!”

“Never! after this.”

“It isn’t done.  And first you’re like a white rose, and next you’re like a red.  Will you submit?”

“Oh! shame!” Rhoda uttered.

“Because I’m not a gentleman?”

“You are not.”

“So, if I could make you a lady—­eh? the lips ’d be ready in a trice.  You think of being made a lady—­a lady!”

His arm relaxed in the clutch of her figure.

She got herself free, and said:  “We saw Mr. Blancove at the theatre with
Dahlia.”

It was her way of meeting his accusation that she had cherished an ambitious feminine dream.

He, to hide a confusion that had come upon him, was righting the fallen candle.

“Now I know you can be relied on; you can defend yourself,” he said, and handed it to her, lighted.  “You keep your kisses for this or that young gentleman.  Quite right.  You really can defend yourself.  That’s all I was up to.  So let us hear that you forgive me.  The door’s open.  You won’t be bothered by me any more; and don’t hate me overmuch.”

“You might have learned to trust me without insulting me, Robert,” she said.

“Do you fancy I’d take such a world of trouble for a kiss of your lips, sweet as they are?”

His blusterous beginning ended in a speculating glance at her mouth.

She saw it would be wise to accept him in his present mood, and go; and with a gentle “Good night,” that might sound like pardon, she passed through the doorway.

CHAPTER XV

Next day, while Squire Blancove was superintending the laying down of lines for a new carriage drive in his park, as he walked slowly up the green slope he perceived Farmer Fleming, supported by a tall young man; and when the pair were nearer, he had the gratification of noting likewise that the worthy yeoman was very much bent, as with an acute attack of his well-known chronic malady of a want of money.

The squire greatly coveted the freehold of Queen Anne’s Farm.  He had made offers to purchase it till he was tired, and had gained for himself the credit of being at the bottom of numerous hypothetical cabals to injure and oust the farmer from his possession.  But if Naboth came with his vineyard in his hand, not even Wrexby’s rector (his quarrel with whom haunted every turn in his life) could quote Scripture against him for taking it at a proper valuation.