“So I should have thought a month ago, Mr Penwynn,” said Geoffrey, holding out his hand. “Our interests ran together then. Now—I think—I hope—they are one, and I cannot strike bargains with the father of the woman!—”
He stopped and looked at Rhoda, who slowly raised her eyes to his, and then her hands, which he took softly, reverently, and kissed. Then he turned to Mr Penwynn and finished his sentence—“most dearly love.”
The banker watched them very thoughtfully, for it seemed hardly real to him. In fact, at times he asked himself if it were not a dream.
He was roused from recollections of his own career, some five-and-twenty years before, by Geoffrey turning to him abruptly.
“Mr Penwynn,” he said, “I leave myself in your hands. I am working in our mutual interests.”
“And suppose I play false?” said Mr Penwynn.
“You can’t, sir,” cried Geoffrey, “with Rhoda here. If you treated me hard, you would be behaving ill to your daughter, and that you will not do. Now, good-morning. When will you come down and see the lode?”
“I’m not fond of going down mines,” said Mr Penwynn.
“But in this case you will, I think,” said Geoffrey.—“I’ll answer for your safety. Miss Penwynn—Rhoda?”
“Yes,” she cried, answering his unspoken question, “I will come down too. I shall not be afraid, and I want to christen the Rhoda vein.”