“Character?” said Mr Penwynn, turning his head in astonishment.
“Yes, papa. People—Miss Pavey, Mr Paul, Dr Rumsey—all say—”
“Bah! rubbish! stuff! you silly goose! All sorts of things, of course, as they do about every handsome, well-to-do young bachelor. They are a set of whist-playing, gossiping, mischief-making old women, the lot of them, and if Rumsey don’t mind what he’s about he’ll lose what little practice he has. He don’t come here again.”
“No, papa, you will not visit my hasty words on poor Dr Rumsey,” said Rhoda, with spirit.
“And as for old Paul,” continued Mr Penwynn, from behind the paper, “he’s a bilious, chronic, ill-tempered, liverless old capsicum, who would rob his own mother of her good name—if she had one.”
“I believe he is a true gentleman at heart,” said Rhoda, quickly.
“Then I’d rather not be a gentleman,” said Mr Penwynn, laughing, “or a lady either like Miss Pavey. Poor little red-nosed thing. Pity she wasn’t married twenty years ago. I see: I see: that’s it,” he said, laughing heartily, and taking off and wiping his glasses. “Poor little Martha Pavey, of course! She fell desperately in love with Tregenna, and—and—ha! ha! ha! ha!—he—he did not return the passion. Heavens! what a wicked wretch.”
Rhoda had risen, and stood with her hand upon the back of her chair, looking very much agitated, but cold and stern, as she watched her father, and waited till his assumed gaiety was at an end.
“Papa,” she said, at length, in a tone that taught him that he was on the wrong tack, and that he must speak to his daughter upon this important point as if she were a woman, and not as a silly, weak girl, “I do not base my objections to Mr Tregenna upon what people say alone.”
“Then on what, pray?” he exclaimed, with his glass now falling inside his open vest. “What has he done? Did he once upon a time kiss some pretty fisher-girl, with bare legs? or a nice-looking miner’s daughter? If so, it was very bad taste, but very natural.”