“All very well about Rhoda,” said Anthony. “She's everything to me, too.”
“Every—everybody loves her!” Dahlia took him up.
“Let 'em, so long as they don't do no harm to her,” was Anthony's remark. There was an idea in this that he had said, and the light of it led off his fancy. It was some time before he returned to the attack.
“Neighbours gossip a good deal. O' course you know that.”
“I never listen to them,” said Dahlia, who now felt bare at any instant for the stab she saw coming.
“No, not in London; but country's different, and a man hearing of his child 'it's very odd!' and 'keepin' away like that!' and 'what's become of her?' and that sort of thing, he gets upset.”
Dahlia swallowed in her throat, as in perfect quietude of spirit, and pretended to see no meaning for herself in Anthony's words.
But she said, inadvertently, “Dear father!” and it gave Anthony his opening.
“There it is. No doubt you're fond of him. You're fond o' th' old farmer, who's your father. Then, why not make a entry into the village, and show 'em? I loves my father, says you. I can or I can't bring my husband, you seems to say; but I'm come to see my old father. Will you go down to-morrow wi' me?”
“Oh!” Dahlia recoiled and abandoned all defence in a moan: “I can't—I can't!”