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John turned pale at the thought. The beautiful story of the Falcon, in Boccaccio, which the young knight killed to regale his mistress, or the still more tragical history of Couci, who minced his rival's heart, and served it up to his wife, could not have affected him more deeply. We grieved over our lost dahlia, as if it had been a thing of life.
She divined that the old man must be allowed to run on in his own way, and for a long time he rambled, gave a picture of the wedding, and of a robbery of Boyne's Bank: the firm of Boyne, Burt, Hamble, and Company. At last, he touched on Dahlia. "What she wants, I can't make out," he said; "and what that good lady there, or somebody, made mention of how she manages to dress as she do!
"Jeeves," I said, "do you know what?" "No, sir." "You know my cousin Angela?" "Yes, sir." "You know young Tuppy Glossop?" "Yes, sir." "They've broken off their engagement." "I am sorry to hear that, sir." "I have here a communication from Aunt Dahlia, specifically stating this. I wonder what the row was about." "I could not say, sir." "Of course you couldn't. Don't be an ass, Jeeves." "No, sir."
Besides, there was but one virtue possible in Rhoda's ideas, as regarded Dahlia: to oppose facts, if necessary, and have her innocent perforce, and fight to the death them that dared cast slander on the beloved head. Her keen instinct served her so far. His was alive when she refused to tell him what had taken place during their visit to London.
She thought that one who could so transform her sister, touch her with awe, and give her gracefulness and humility, must be what Dahlia said he was. She asked shyly for his Christian name; but even so little Dahlia withheld. It was his wish that Dahlia should keep silence concerning him. "Have you sworn an oath?" said Rhoda, wonderingly.
And so the two men dragged the table into the office, and as they finished, Ward saw General Hendricks coming up the stairs, and when the new room had been put in order, a simple operation, General Ward hurried home to help Mrs. Ward get in their dahlia roots for the winter.
Well, she was tailor-made, which means that near a horse she beat other women to a frazzle, but on a parquet floor, covered with dainty, wispy, fox-trotting damsels, she showed up like a double magenta-coloured dahlia in a bed of anemones.
"And looking so, as she says it. My love, you didn't mean to die?" Dahlia soothed her, and sent her off. "I am buried alive!" she said. "I feel it all the stifling! the hopeless cramp! Let us go and garden. Rhoda, have you got laudanum in the house?" Rhoda shook her head, too sick at heart to speak. They went into the garden, which was Dahlia's healthfullest place.
Dahlia rears and falls over the edge, pulling sleigh and wheeler after her into a trough of snow. Somehow or another, no one ever does get hurt out of a sleigh, even after an impromptu header of a dozen feet.
"I suppose," said that young lady, with the composure of ignorance, "we are all right as long as this bald-face horse keeps its nose pointing at Captain Delamere's back." "Quite so," said Jack, cheerily; "don't take the whip, you are only winding it round your own neck. I'll give Dahlia a lick in the face if she turns out of the rank."
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