Phœbe tried to interest him by the account of the family migration, and of Miss Fennimore’s promise that Maria and Bertha should have two half-hours of real play in the garden on each day when the lessons had been properly done; and how she had been so kind as to let Maria leave off trying to read a French book that had proved too hard for her, not perceiving why this instance of good-nature was not cheering to her brother.
Miss Charlecote’s house was a delightful marvel to Phœbe from the moment when she rattled into the paved court, entered upon the fragrant odour of the cedar hall, and saw the Queen of Sheba’s golden locks beaming with the evening light. She entered the drawing-room, pleasant-looking already, under the judicious arrangement of the housekeeper, who had set out the Holt flowers and arranged the books, so that it seemed full of welcome.
Phœbe ran from window to mantelpiece, enchanted with the quaint mixture of old and new, admiring carving and stained glass, and declaring that Owen had not prepared her for anything equal to this, until Miss Charlecote, going to arrange matters with her housekeeper, left the brother and sister together.
‘Well, Robin!’ said Phœbe, coming up to him anxiously.
He only crossed his arms on the mantelpiece, rested his head on them, and sighed.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Not to speak to her.’
‘Have you called?’
‘No.’
‘Then where did you see her?’