“I? Go to see Miss Penwynn, and beg her to take me on again—to be her lover, vice that scoun—Tchah! how hot-brained I am. De mortuis! Let him rest. But no, Uncle Paul. That’s all over now.”
“Don’t see it, my boy. She never cared a snap of the fingers for Tregenna.”
“But she accepted, and would have married him.”
“After she believed you to be a scoundrel, Trethick.”
“What right had she to consider me a scoundrel?” cried Geoffrey, hotly. “My character ought to have been her faith.”
“Yes,” said the old man, dryly; “but then she had the misfortune to be a woman of sense and not of sentiment. I think she did quite right.”
“Then I don’t,” said Geoffrey, hotly.
“Ah, that’s better,” said the old man; “it’s quite a treat to have a bit of a row, Trethick. It’s like going back to old times. I like Rhoda Penwynn better every day; and the way in which she helps the old man is something to be admired, sir. But how he—a clever, sharp fellow—allowed that Tregenna to involve him as he did, I don’t know.”
“I suppose he is very poor now,” said Geoffrey, who could not conceal his interest.
“Poor? I don’t believe he has a penny. The girl’s as good or as bad as destitute.”