Still Rhoda did not reply, for there was an uneasy feeling in her breast, and, in spite of herself, she could not help recalling Bess’s act as she raised and passionately kissed Geoffrey Trethick’s hand.
It was nothing to her, of course, and she hated to think of the things in which her companion would have gloried; but still old Mrs Prawle’s words and Geoffrey’s frequent visits to the Cove floated back, and a feeling of irritation and anger against him they had just left kept growing stronger and stronger.
“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Pavey, suddenly, with quite a girlish giggle, “neglectful as he was to me, I feel smitten—absolutely smitten.”
“What?” exclaimed Rhoda, harshly.
“Oh! my dear child,” cried Miss Pavey, “don’t for goodness’ sake snap a poor creature up like that. But oh, you naughty, naughty girl! Have I touched the tender chord at last? Oh, Rhoda, my darling child, don’t be jealous; you have no cause!”
“I—jealous?” cried Rhoda, frowning.
“Not the slightest cause, dearest,” said Miss Pavey, simpering. “I would not confess such a thing to any one but you, dearest; but if Mr Trethick went down on his knees to me at this moment, much as I admire him, I should have to say no!”
“My dear Martha, what do you mean?” exclaimed Rhoda, half angrily.
“I can’t help it, dearest,” sighed Miss Pavey. “That scene has made me feel hysterical and low; and I cannot help confessing to you, dearest Rhoda, that I love him.”
“Love Mr Trethick?” cried Rhoda, whose eyes contracted.