"Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge," said Jeremiah, chuckling, and feeling his pocket, in which an acceptance for three hundred pounds with Mr. Lethbridge's name to it was safely secured. "I know something of them. Do you think she's in love?"
"No."
"It wouldn't matter if she was." And here Jeremiah paused, and gave himself up to thought, with his fingers stretched across his brows. Mrs. Pamflett observed him earnestly, but did not disturb him. "Mother, would you like to see me ride in my carriage—my own carriage?"
"I should be the proudest woman in England, Jeremiah—my own Jeremiah!"
"Stow that!" cried Jeremiah, holding her off. "No more buttons! You'd like to see me ride, in my carriage, would you? There are more unlikely things. You said I was good enough for any girl. Am I good enough for Phœbe?"
"A million times too good, my boy," said Mrs. Pamflett, enthusiastically.
"That's a blessing. She ought to be grateful. When I met her in the village she had a lot of parcels. Does she go shopping for you?"
"Not she. Perhaps she's been buying some things for her birthday. She's going to give her aunt and uncle tea here."
"Oho! And when is Phœbe's birthday, mother?"
"To-morrow."