‘I hate the word!’ said Lucilla. ‘Plaguing is only fun, but grieving, that is serious.’
‘I do believe this is only plaguing!’ cried Phœbe, ‘and that this is your way of disposing of all the flies. I shall tell Robin so!’
‘To spoil all my fun,’ exclaimed Lucilla. ‘No, indeed!’
Phœbe only gave a nod and smile of supreme satisfaction.
‘Ah! but, Phœbe, if I’m to grieve nobody, what’s to become of poor Rashe, you little selfish woman?’
‘Selfish, no!’ sturdily said Phœbe. ‘If it be wrong for you, it must be equally wrong for her; and perhaps’ she added,
slowly, ‘you would both be glad of some good reason for giving it up. Lucy, dear, do tell me whether you really like it, for I cannot fancy you so.’
‘Like it? Well, yes! I like the salmons, and I dote on the fun and the fuss. I say, Phœbe, can you bear the burden of a secret? Well—only mind, if you tell Robin or Honor, I shall certainly go; we never would have taken it up in earnest if such a rout had not been made about it, that we were driven to show we did not care, and could be trusted with ourselves.’
‘Then you don’t mean it?’
‘That’s as people behave themselves. Hush! Here comes Honor. Look here, Sweet Honey, I am in a process of selection. I am pledged to come out at the ball in a unique trimming of salmon-flies.’