Tregenna saw that he would be only injuring his cause by pressing his suit, and he desisted; but there was a curious look in his eye, which made Rhoda shiver, as he exclaimed,—
“But the future, Rhoda—Miss Penwynn—dear Miss Penwynn? I am not to take this as a complete dismissal from your presence.”
“Mr Tregenna,” replied Rhoda, “I have told you plainly that I can never become your wife. If I have been too blunt, or seemed unmaidenly, you must forgive it, and recollect that I have never known a mother’s care, but from a child had to assume a woman’s duties as the mistress of this house. As to the future—you are my father’s friend.”
“And yours,” he cried eagerly.
“My father’s friends are my friends,” said Rhoda, rather coldly. “We will then henceforth consider the words which you have addressed to me to-night as having never been spoken.”
“As you will,” he said hoarsely; “but so long as this heart continues to beat I shall—”
“Mr Tregenna,” exclaimed Rhoda, rising, and speaking with dignity, “you are hurt and grieved, but I must ask your forbearance in this.”
“Forgive me,” he said humbly, as he bent down his head, and hid the strange look that crossed his face, “it shall be as you wish. We are friends, then. What shall we talk about now,” he added, with an almost imperceptible sneer, “books or flowers?”
“I was about to ask you what you think of our guests,” said Rhoda, trying to be calm and unconcerned, for Tregenna made no effort to leave her.
“Indeed!” he said listlessly, sinking back in his seat as Rhoda took a chair at a short distance. “Do you wish to know?”