‘It is either Eleanor or Cecily.’
‘Indeed!’ cried Phœbe; ‘what put that into your head?’
‘Her expression—no, her entire Wesen. Something homely, simple, a little old-fashioned, and yet refined.’
‘It is odd,’ said Phœbe, pausing.
‘What is odd?’
‘You have explained the likeness I could not make out. I once saw a photograph of a Cecily, with exactly the character you mention. It was that of which she reminded me.’
‘Cecily? Who could it have been?’
‘One of the Raymond cousinhood. What o’clock is it?’
‘Oh, don’t get up yet, Phœbe; I want to tell you Miss Holmby’s history, as I make it out. She said she was not ill, but I am convinced that her uncle and aunt took her abroad to give her change, not after illness, but sorrow.’
‘Yes, I am sure she has known trouble.’