He had so many pleasant things to say on that sunny, spring morning that the breakfast-table was soon as bright as the dappled opalescent sea that sparkled and flashed as it played round the rocky promontory upon which stood the ruins of Wheal Carnac Mine, or lifted the dark hulls of the fishing-luggers moored to the buoys, some of which had their dark cinnamon-hued sails hung out to dry, forming, through the heavily-curtained window, with its boxes of ferns, a charming bit of sea, like some carefully-selected specimen of the painter’s art.
Rhoda had forgotten the little cloud in the present sunshine, when, after a preparation of pleasant words, Mr Penwynn suddenly said,—
“Oh! by the way, I did not tell you about Tregenna.”
“About Tregenna, papa?” said Rhoda, whose face suddenly lowered.
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr Penwynn, putting on his glasses and taking up the paper, as he shifted his chair sidewise to the table, “he’s coming here this morning. By the way, Rhoda, you are twenty-one, are you not?”
“Yes, papa, of course, but—”
“I told Tregenna you were,” he said, quietly, and with an averted face. “He’s thirty-three.”
“I don’t understand you, papa,” said Rhoda, quietly.
“Has Tregenna been attentive to you lately?”
“Oh, yes, papa,” said Rhoda, impatiently; “but what do you mean?”