“You know what Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—is. I ask you, is she like an ordinary weak girl?”
“No, you are right. She is not,” said Tregenna, mournfully. “If she were, I should not worship her as I do.”
“She has a will of her own,” continued the banker, “and she can be very firm. At your request I tried to soften her determination—asked her for time, asked her to let you continue your visits as a friend, and renew your proposal six months hence; but it was in vain, and I know her too well not to see that if you continue to press your suit you will not only lose all chance of her intimacy, but excite her dislike.”
“Did she say that?” asked Tregenna, with glittering eyes.
“Well, well, not exactly.”
“But she said that if I pressed my suit she should dislike me.”
“Oh, no!—not so explicit as that. I think not. I—”
“Speak out plainly, Penwynn,” said Tregenna, sharply. “Don’t play with me.”
“Well, it was something of that sort; but she was greatly excited, for I had pressed her home.”
Tregenna was silent, and turned away his face, which was slightly convulsed. But he soon mastered his emotion, and at the end of a minute turned back to face Mr Penwynn.