“The old painters were right,” he said abruptly, as he retained her hand.
“Old painters? Right?” faltered Rhoda.
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, “when they painted their angels in the form of a beautiful woman. God bless you, my dear, you are a good, forgiving girl! I know where you have been.”
“Oh, this is horrible!” ejaculated Rhoda, as she hurried away. “I cannot bear it. What am I to suffer next?”
She would have turned out of the path, but unless she descended to the rugged beach there was no other way back home; and, as if to make her miseries culminate, she had not gone another quarter of a mile before she met Miss Pavey, with a thick veil shrouding her countenance, and a basket in her hand.
They stopped and looked at each other curiously, and as Miss Pavey raised her veil there was a red spot burning in each of her cheeks.
“Have you been for a walk, dear?” she faltered.
“Yes,” said Rhoda, abruptly. “And you—are you going for a walk?”
Miss Pavey trembled, and it was evident that she was having a battle with her feelings. She was afraid to speak, and she looked supplicatingly in Rhoda’s eyes, which were fixed upon her in the most uncompromising way.
For a moment a subterfuge was trembling upon her lips, but honesty conquered, and, looking more bravely in Rhoda’s face, she said,—