Rhoda returned home the heavier for a secret that she bore with her.

All through the first night of her sleeping in London, Dahlia's sobs, and tender hugs, and self-reproaches, had penetrated her dreams, and when the morning came she had scarcely to learn that Dahlia loved some one.
The confession was made; but his name was reserved.

Dahlia spoke of him with such sacredness of respect that she seemed lost in him, and like a creature kissing his feet.

With tears rolling down her cheeks, and with moans of anguish, she spoke of the deliciousness of loving: of knowing one to whom she abandoned her will and her destiny, until, seeing how beautiful a bloom love threw upon the tearful worn face of her sister, Rhoda was impressed by a mystical veneration for this man, and readily believed him to be above all other men, if not superhuman: for she was of an age and an imagination to conceive a spiritual pre-eminence over the weakness of mortality.

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.