‘Yes, my dear, girls always get soured if they do not marry!’
‘Not Miss Charlecote, mamma.’
‘Ah! but Honor Charlecote was an heiress, and could have had plenty of offers. Don’t talk of not marrying, Phœbe, I beg.’
‘No,’ said Phœbe, gravely. ‘I should like to marry some one very good and wise, who could help me out of all my difficulties.’
‘Bless me, Phœbe! I hope you did not meet any poor curate
at that place of Honor Charlecote’s. Your papa would never consent.’
‘I never met anybody, mamma,’ said Phœbe, smiling. ‘I was only thinking what he should be like.’
‘Well, what?’ said Mrs. Fulmort, with girlish curiosity. ‘Not that it’s any use settling. I always thought I would marry a marquis’s younger son, because it is such a pretty title, and that he should play on the guitar. But he must not be an officer, Phœbe; we have had trouble enough about that.’
‘I don’t know what he is to be, mamma,’ said Phœbe, earnestly, ‘except that he should be as sensible as Miss Fennimore, and as good as Miss Charlecote. Perhaps a man could put both into one, and then he could lead me, and always show me the reason of what is right.’
‘Phœbe, Phœbe! you will never get married if you wait for a philosopher. Your papa would never like a very clever genius or an author.’