“How did he lose it?”
The poor victim of this pertinacious interrogatory now beat about within herself for succour. “I must not say,” she replied.
“You're going to try to keep a secret, are ye?” said Anthony; and she, in her relief at the pause to her torment, said: “I am,” with a little infantile, withering half-smile.
“Well, you've been and kept yourself pretty secret,” the old man pursued. “I suppose your husband's proud? He's proud, ain't he? He's of a family, I'll be bound. Is he of a family? How did he like your dressing up like a mill'ner gal to come down in the City and see me?”
Dahlia's guile was not ready. “He didn't mind,” she said.
“He didn't mind, didn't he? He don't mind your cutting of your hair so?—didn't mind that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Anthony was down upon her like a hawk.
“Why, he's abroad!”
“Yes; I mean, he did not see me.”