“Well, perhaps not, my dear. He certainly is a very clever, sensible fellow.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Rhoda, beneath her breath, as she gazed at the handsome profile before her.
“You might do worse, my dear,” continued Mr Penwynn, skimming the paper.
“Do I understand you, papa, that you sanction Mr Tregenna’s proposal?”
“Sanction?” he said, looking up from the paper for a moment to glance over his glasses at his child. “Oh, yes, my dear: of course.”
“I can not—I will not, see Mr Tregenna,” said Rhoda, firmly, and one of her little feet began to beat the thick Turkey carpet.
“Don’t be foolish, my dear. He is desperately taken with you, and will make you a capital husband.”
“Husband?” cried the girl, passionately. “Oh, papa, you cannot mean this. Mr Tregenna is—”
“A gentleman, my dear, a great friend of mine—of ours, I should say—of great assistance to me in my business arrangements, and I think the match most suitable—that is, if he is in earnest.”
“In earnest? Oh, papa?” cried Rhoda, piteously, “have you thought—have you considered Mr Tregenna’s character?”