At the door of the house, unseen by anyone of the happy group, Mrs. Pamflett appeared. She saw the meeting, and noted Phœbe's blushing face. She partly closed the door, and, retreating a step, stood there, watching and debating within herself.
Fred Cornwall held in his hand a bunch of flowers, very choice specimens, loosely tied, and arranged with charming grace. Not in the shape of a regulation bouquet, but infinitely more beautiful in their apparently careless form. He offered them to Phœbe, and she accepted them. Mrs. Pamflett set her thin white lips close.
Then the young gentleman presented, as birthday gifts, the presents he had bought for Phœbe on his Continental trip, accompanying them with heart-felt wishes. Phœbe, trembling, thrilling, was in the seventh heaven of joy.
When, however, she recovered her self-possession, she felt herself in a difficulty. Would her father be angry? Aunt Leth, seeing the light shadow on her face, moved aside with her.
"You are thinking of your father, Phœbe?" she said.
"Yes, aunt."
"You would like Mr. Cornwall to stop to tea?" Enlightened by Fanny's confession in the early part of the day, she regarded Mr. Cornwall and her niece as lovers, and her sympathies were already enlisted on their side.
"Yes, aunt," replied Phœbe. "But it is a little awkward, is it not? What shall I do?"
"Go and ask your father," said Aunt Leth. "Say that Mr. Cornwall is a friend of ours, and that you have often met him at our house. Go at once; Mr. Cornwall need not know; I will keep him engaged while you are away."
Phœbe nodded, and started for the house. Mrs. Pamflett, seeing her coming, beat a retreat, not desiring to meet the young girl just at that moment.