“I have given you my reasons, papa. I do not, and never like Mr Tregenna.”
“Then,” he cried, passionately striking the table with his fist, “there is some one in the way. Who is it?”
“Who is it, papa?”
“Yes; I insist upon knowing who it is. And look here, if you have been entering into an engagement with some beggarly up start, who—”
“Papa,” said Rhoda, looking him full in the face, “why do you speak to me like that? You would not if you were not in a passion. You know perfectly well that I keep nothing from you.”
This was a heavy blow for Mr Penwynn, and it made him wince. It cooled him, and he shook his head, muttered, and ended by exclaiming,—
“Sit down, Rhoda. What is the use of your being so obstinate and putting me out? You make me say these things. Come, be reasonable. See Mr Tregenna, and let him speak to you.”
“I would far rather not, papa,” said Rhoda, firmly.
“But you must. I insist; I beg of you. It is not courteous to him. Come; see him, and hear what he has to say. There, there, I knew you would. Look here, Rhoda, tell me this. I ask it of you as your father. Had your sweet mother been alive, it would have come from her; I would not intrude upon the secrets of your heart. Have you cared, do you care, for any one else?”
Rhoda smiled sadly.