"Lord!" said Mrs. Sumfit, "how I tremble!"
Robert, too, looked grave, and got away from the house. The dread of evil news of Dahlia was common to them all; yet none had mentioned it, Robert conceiving that it would be impertinence on his part to do so; the farmer, that the policy of permitting Dahlia's continued residence in London concealed the peril; while Mrs. Sumfit flatly defied the threatening of a mischance to one so sweet and fair, and her favourite. It is the insincerity of persons of their class; but one need not lay stress on the wilfulness of uneducated minds. Robert walked across the fields, walking like a man with an object in view. As he dropped into one of the close lanes which led up to Wrexby Hall, he saw Rhoda standing under an oak, her white morning-dress covered with sun-spots. His impulse was to turn back, the problem, how to speak to her, not being settled within him. But the next moment his blood chilled; for he had perceived, though he had not felt simultaneously, that two gentlemen were standing near her, addressing her. And it was likewise manifest that she listened to them. These presently raised their hats and disappeared. Rhoda came on toward Robert.
"You have forgotten your dinner," he said, with a queer sense of shame at dragging in the mention of that meal.
"I have been too happy to eat," Rhoda replied.
Robert glanced up the lane, but she gave no heed to this indication, and asked: "Has uncle come?"
"Did you expect him?"
"I thought he would come."
"What has made you happy?"
"You will hear from uncle."
"Shall I go and hear what those—"