‘An instant more, Bertha. You see everything, I know; but has Miss Fennimore guessed?’
‘No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her as, Lover’s look conscious; Phœbe looks conscious; therefore Phœbe is in love! It is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter her brain.’
‘Then, Bertha, do not let any one guess it. I shall speak to Mervyn to-morrow, and write to Robin. It is their due, but no one else must know it—no, not for a long time—years perhaps.’
‘You do not mean to wait for years?’
‘We must.’
‘Then what’s the use of having thirty thousand pounds?’
‘No, Bertha, it would not be like him to be content with
owing all to my fortune, and beginning life in idleness. It would be just enough to live on, with none of the duties of property, and that would never do! I could not wish it for him, and he has his brothers to provide for.’
‘Well, let him work for them, and have your money to make capital! Really, Phœbe, I would not lose such a chance of going out and seeing those glorious Lakes!’
‘I have Maria to consider.’