‘I say,’ he observed, while she was searching, ‘so you are to chip the shell.’
‘I’m only going to London—I’m not coming out.’
‘Gammon!’ he said, with an odd wink. ‘You need never go in again, like the what’s-his-name in the fairy tale, or you are a sillier child than I take you for. They’—nodding at the piano—‘are getting a terrible pair of old cats, and we want something young and pretty about.’
With this unusual compliment, Phœbe, seeing the way clear to the door, rose to depart, most reluctantly followed by Bertha, and more willingly by Maria, who began, the moment they were in the hall—
‘Phœbe, why do they get a couple of terrible old cats? I don’t like them. I shall be afraid.’
‘Mervyn didn’t mean—’ began perplexed Phœbe, cut short by Bertha’s boisterous laughter. ‘Oh, Maria, what a goose you are! You’ll be the death of me some day! Why, Juliana and Augusta are the cats themselves. Oh, dear! I wanted to
kiss Mervyn for saying so. Oh, wasn’t it fun! And now, Maria,—oh! if I could have stayed a moment longer!’
‘Bertha, Bertha, not such a noise in the hall. Come, Maria; mind, you must not tell anybody. Bertha, come,’ expostulated Phœbe, trying to drag her sister to the red baize door; but Bertha stood, bending nearly double, exaggerating the helplessness of her paroxysms of laughter.
‘Well, at least the cat will have something to scratch her,’ she gasped out. ‘Oh, I did so want to stay and see!’
‘Have you been playing any tricks?’ exclaimed Phœbe, with consternation, as Bertha’s deportment recurred to her.