“What do you think of Madam?”
Phoebe shrank from this question. “I can hardly think anything yet.”
“Oh dear, I wish to-morrow were over!” said Rhoda with an artificial shiver. “I do hate the thirtieth of January. I wish it never came. We have to go to church, and there is only tea and bread and butter for dinner, and we must not divert ourselves with anything. I’ll show you the ruins, and read you some of my poetry. Did you not know I writ poetry?”
“No,” replied Phoebe. “But will that not be diverting ourselves?”
“Oh, but we can’t always be miserable!” said Rhoda. “Besides, what good does it do? It is none to King Charles: and I’m sure it never does me good. Oh, and we will go and see the Maidens’ Lodge, and make acquaintance with the old gentlewomen.”
“The Maidens’ Lodge, what is that?”
“Why, about ten years ago Madam built six little houses, and called it the Maidens’ Lodge; a sort of better-most kind of alms-houses, you know, for six old gentlewomen—at least, I dare say they are not all old, but some of them are. (Mrs Vane does not think she is, at any rate.) You can’t see them from this window; they are on the other side of the church.”
“And are they all filled?”
“All but one, just now. I protest I don’t know why Madam built them. I guess she thought it was good works. I should have thought it would have been better works to have sent for Aunt Anne, as well as you; but don’t you tell her I said so!”
“Don’t be afraid,” said Phoebe, smiling. “I trust I am not a pick-thank. But don’t you think, when you would not have a thing said again, it were better not to say it at the first?”