Traps laid for Rhoda.
“La souveraine habilité consiste à bien connoître le prix des choses.”
La Rochefoucauld.
There was an earnest, wistful, far-away look in Gatty’s eyes, as though some treasure-house had been opened to her, the existence of which she had never previously suspected; but neither she nor Phoebe said a word to each other as they crossed the Park, and went up the wide white steps of the Abbey.
“Where on earth have you been, you gadabouts?” came in Rhoda’s voice from the interior of the hall. “Oh, but I’ve such a jolly piece of news for you! Molly and me heard it from Madam. Guess what it is.”
Rhoda’s grammar was more free and easy than correct at all times; and Phoebe could not help thinking that in that respect, as in others, she had perceptibly deteriorated by contact with Molly.
“I don’t care to hear it, thank you,” said Gatty, rather hastily, walking straight upstairs.
“Oh, don’t you, Mrs Prim?” demanded Rhoda. “Well, it doesn’t concern you much. Now, Phoebe, guess!”
Phoebe felt very little in tune for the sort of amusement usually patronised by Rhoda. But she set herself to gratify that rather exacting young lady.
“I don’t guess things well,” she said. “Is one of your aunts coming?”
“My aunts!” repeated Rhoda, in supreme scorn. “Not if I know it, thank you. I said it was jolly. Why, Phoebe! to guess such a thing as that!”