"Not with Rhoda?"
"It's a name in Scripture," said Anthony, and he drew nearer to her.
"You're comfortable and dark here, my dear. How did you come here?
What's happened? You won't surprise me."
"I'm only stopping for a day or two in London, uncle."
"Ah! a wicked place; that it is. No wickeder than other places, I'll be bound. Well; I must be trotting. I can't sit, I tell you. You're as dark here as a gaol."
"Let me ring for candles, uncle."
"No; I'm going."
She tried to touch him, to draw him to a chair. The agile old man bounded away from her, and she had to pacify him submissively before he would consent to be seated. The tea-service was brought, and Rhoda made tea, and filled a cup for him. Anthony began to enjoy the repose of the room. But it made the money-bags' alien to him, and serpents in his bosom. Fretting—on his chair, he cried: "Well! well! what's to talk about? We can't drink tea and not talk!"
Rhoda deliberated, and then said: "Uncle, I think you have always loved me."
It seemed to him a merit that he should have loved her. He caught at the idea.
"So I have, Rhoda, my dear; I have. I do."