"Not that I am aware of."
"And this father?"
"Mr. Blancove, he is one of those sort—he can't lift up his head if he so much as suspects a reproach to his children."
Edward brooded. "I desire—as I told you, as I told her sister, as I told my father last night—I desire to make her my wife. What can I do more? Are they mad with some absurd country pride? Half-past eleven!—it will be murder if they force her to it! Where is she? To such a man as that! Poor soul! I can hardly fear it, for I can't imagine it. Here— the time is going. You know the man yourself."
"I know the man?" said Robert. "I've never set eyes on him—I've never set eyes on him, and never liked to ask much about him. I had a sort of feeling. Her sister says he is a good, and kind, honourable young fellow, and he must be."
"Before it's too late," Edward muttered hurriedly—"you know him—his name is Sedgett."
Robert hung swaying over him with a big voiceless chest.
"That Sedgett?" he breathed huskily, and his look was hard to meet.
Edward frowned, unable to raise his head.
"Lord in heaven! some one has something to answer for!" cried Robert. "Come on; come to the church. That foul dog?—Or you, stay where you are. I'll go. He to be Dahlia's husband! They've seen him, and can't see what he is!—cunning with women as that? How did they meet? Do you know?—can't you guess?"