‘I would not believe in number three, Phœbe, if I were you,’ said Owen, consolingly; ‘she wants confirmation.’
‘Two are as bad as three,’ sighed Phœbe; ‘and Augusta did not even call him a widower.’
‘Cupid bandaged! It was a case of love at first sight. Met at the Trois Frères Provençaux, heard each other’s critical remarks, sought an introduction, compared notes; he discovered her foresight with regard to pale ale; each felt that here was a kindred soul!’
‘That could not have been telegraphed!’ said Phœbe, recovering spirit and incredulity.
‘No; the telegram was simply “Bannerman, Fulmort. 8.30 p.m., July 10th.” The other particulars followed by letter this morning.’
‘How old is he?’ asked Phœbe, with resignation.
‘Any age above sixty. What, Phœbe, taking it to heart? I was prepared with congratulations. It is only second best, to be sure; but don’t you see your own emancipation?’
‘I believe that had never occurred to Phœbe,’ said Owen.
‘I beg your pardon, Lucy,’ said Phœbe, thinking that she had appeared out of temper; ‘only it had sounded so nice in Augusta’s letter, and she was so kind, and somehow it jars that there should have been that sort of talk.’
Cilly was checked. In her utter want of thought it had not occurred to her that Augusta Fulmort could be other than a laughing-stock, or that any bright anticipations could have been spent by any reasonable person on her marriage. Perhaps the companionship of Rashe, and the satirical outspoken tone of her associates, had somewhat blunted her perception of what