“'Ever see Mr. Edward Blancove here?' he says.
“I told him, I'd heard say, Mr. Edward was Continentalling. And then Robert goes off. His opinion is you ain't in England; 'cause a policeman he spoke to can't find you nowhere.
“'Come,” says I, 'let's keep our detectives to catch thieves, and not go distracting of 'em about a parcel o' women.'
“He's awfully down about Rhoda. She might do worse than take him. I don't think he's got a ounce of a chance now Religion's set in, though he's the mildest big 'un I ever come across. I forgot to haul him over about what he 'd got to say about Mr. Edward. I did remark, I thought—ain't I right?—Mr. Algernon's not the man?—eh? How come you in the theatre with him?”
Dahlia spoke huskily. “He saw me. He had seen me at home. It was an accident.”
“Exactly how I put it to Robert. And he agreed with me. There's sense in that young man. Your husband wouldn't let you come to us there—eh? because he...why was that?”
Dahlia had it on her lips to say it “Because he was poorer than I thought;” but in the intensity of her torment, the wretchedness of this lie, revolted her. “Oh! for God's sake, uncle, give me peace about that.”
The old man murmured: “Ay, ay;” and thought it natural that she should shun an allusion to the circumstance.
They crossed one of the bridges, and Dahlia stopped and said: “Kiss me, uncle.”
“I ain't ashamed,” said Anthony.