Now Phoebe was drinking tea with Reginald Falcon, in her little parlor. “Who is that, I wonder?” said she, when the carriage drew up.
Reginald drew back a corner of the gauze curtain which had been drawn across the little glass door leading from the shop.
“It is a lady, and a beautiful—Oh! let me get out.” And he rushed out at the door leading to the kitchen, not to be recognized.
This set Phoebe all in a flutter, and the next moment Mrs. Staines tapped at the little door, then opened it, and peeped. “Good news! may I come in?”
“Surely,” said Phoebe, still troubled and confused by Reginald's strange agitation.
“There! It is a diamond!” screamed Rosa. “My husband knew it directly. He knows everything. If ever you are ill, go to him and nobody else—by the refraction, and the angle, and its being three times and a half as heavy as water. It is worth three hundred pounds to buy, and a hundred and fifty pounds to sell.”
“Oh!”
“So don't you go throwing it away, as he did. (In a whisper.) Two teacups? Was that him? I have driven him away. I am so sorry. I'll go; and then you can tell him. Poor fellow!”
“Oh, ma'am, don't go yet,” said Phoebe, trembling. “I haven't half thanked you.”
“Oh, bother thanks. Kiss me; that is the way.”