‘Charlecote Raymond has been coming over for the Sundays, and giving great satisfaction.’
‘I say, Robert, where’s the Bannerman carriage? Phœbe is to be victimized there—more’s the pity,’ interposed Mervyn.
‘There is their brougham. I meant to drive to Albury-street with her,’ said Robert, gazing at his brother as if he scarcely knew him without the characteristic knitting of the brow under a grievance, the scowl, or the half-sneering smile; and with the cleared and lightened air that he had worn ever since that little spark of hope had been left to burn and shine undamped by dissipation or worldly policy. Bertha also was changed. She had grown tall and womanly, her looks beyond
her age, and if her childish vivacity were gone, the softened gravity became her much better. It was Phœbe’s report, however, for which he chiefly longed, and he was soon seated beside her on the way to Albury-street, while the others betook themselves Citywards.
‘So, Phœbe, it is all right, and you are satisfied?’
‘Satisfied, grateful, thankful to the utmost,’ said Phœbe, fervently. ‘I think I never was so happy as all through the latter part of the journey.’
‘You think well of Bertha?’
‘I cannot call her restored, for she is far more than she was before. That meeting with Cecily Raymond did for her what we could not do, and she is growing to be more than we knew how to wish for.’
‘Her spirits?’
‘Never high, and easily shaken. Her nerves are not strong yet, and she will never, I fear, be quite girlishly careless and merry, but she is grave and sweet. She does not shrink from people now, and when I saw her among other girls at Paris, she seemed older, much deeper, and altogether superior.’