"Hush—hush," he said, with a gravity that had much sweetness in it. "I cannot have you speak in that way."
"I will not—" said Eleanor, suddenly much more sober than he was.
"There are too many that have the habit of using their Master's words to point their own sentences. Do not let us use it. Come to my study—you did not see it before dinner, I think."
Eleanor was glad he could smile again, for at that minute she could not. She felt whirled back to Plassy, and to Wiglands, to the time of their old and very different relations. She could not realize the new, nor quietly understand her own happiness; and a very fresh vivid sense of his character made her feel almost as much awe of him as affection. That was according to old habit too. But if she felt shy and strange, she was the only one; for Mr. Rhys was in a very gay mood. As they went through the dining-room he stopped to shew and display to her numerous odd little contrivances and arrangements; here a cupboard of rustic, and very pretty too, native work; or at least native materials. There a more sophisticated beaufet, which had come from Sydney by Mrs. Caxton's order. "Dear Mrs. Caxton!" said Mr. Rhys,—"she has forgotten nothing. I am only in astonishment what she can have found to fill your new invoice of boxes."
"Why there are not many," said Eleanor.
He looked at her and laughed. "You will be doing nothing but unpacking for days to come," he said. "I have done what I never thought I should do—married a rich wife."
"Why aunt Caxton sends the things quite as much to you as to me."
"Does she?"
"I am sure, if anybody is poor, I am."
"If that speech means me," said Mr. Rhys with a little bit of provokingness in the corners of his mouth,—"I don't take it. I do not feel poor; and never did. Not to-day certainly, with whole shiploads coming in."