‘My news from Paris?’
‘For shame, Phœbe! Your face betrays you.’
‘Lucy; how could you know? I had not even told Miss Charlecote!’
‘It’s true! it’s true!’ cried Lucilla. ‘That’s just what I wanted to know!’
‘Lucy, then it was not fair,’ said Phœbe, much discomposed. ‘I was desired to tell no one, and you should not have betrayed me into doing so.’
‘Phœbe, you always were a green oasis in a wicked world!’
‘And now, let me hear,’ said Miss Charlecote. ‘I can’t flatter you, Phœbe; I thought you were labouring under a suppressed secret.’
‘Only since this morning,’ pleaded Phœbe, earnestly; ‘and we were expressly forbidden to mention it; I cannot imagine how Lucy knows.’
‘By telegraph!’
Phœbe’s face assumed an expression of immeasurable wonder.