And when Bertha and Maria arrived, brimful of importance at having come home with no escort but a man and maid, and voluble with histories of Sutton, and wedding schemes, they did not find an absent nor inattentive listener. Yet the keen Bertha made the remark, ‘Something has come over you, Phœbe. You have more countenance than ever you had before.’
Whereat Phœbe’s colour rushed into her cheeks, but she demanded the meaning of countenance, and embarked Bertha in a dissertation.
When Phœbe was gone, Robert found it less difficult to force Lucilla to the extremity of a tête-à-tête. Young Randolf was less in the house, and, when there, more with Owen than before, and Lucilla was necessarily sometimes to be caught alone in the drawing-room.
‘Lucy,’ said Robert, the first time this occurred, ‘I have a question to ask you.’
‘Well!’—she turned round half defiant.
‘A correspondent of Mervyn, on the Spanish coast, has written to ask him to find a chaplain for the place, guaranteeing a handsome stipend.’
‘Well,’ said Lucilla, in a cold voice this time.
‘I wished to ask whether you thought it would be acceptable to Mr. Prendergast.’
‘I neither know nor care.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Robert, after a pause; ‘but though I believe I learnt it sooner than I ought, I was sincerely glad to hear—’