A very gorgeously dressed woman, all flounces and feathers as it seemed to Phoebe, sailed into the room, kissed Rhoda, told her that she was welcome, in a languishing voice, desired Betty to see her made comfortable, informed Molly that her hair was out of curl, took no notice of Phoebe, and sailed away again.
“I’m off!” Molly announced to the world. “There’s Mr What-do-you-call-him downstairs. Go and have some fun with him.” And Molly vanished accordingly.
Then Rhoda’s unpacking had to be seen to by herself and Phoebe; that is to say, Phoebe did it, and Rhoda sat and watched her, Betty flitted about, talking to Rhoda, and helping Phoebe, till her name was called from below, and away she went to respond to it. Phoebe, at least, missed her, and thought her pleasant company. Whatever else she might be, she was good-natured. When the unpacking was finished to her satisfaction, Rhoda declared that she was perishing for hunger, and must have something before she could dress. Before she could make up her mind what to do, a rap came on the door, and a neat maid-servant entered with a tray.
“An’t please you, Madam, Mrs Betty bade me bring you a dish of tea,” said she; “for she said ’twas yet two good hours ere supper, and you should be the better of a snack after your journey. Here is both tea and chocolate, bread and butter, and shortcake.” And setting down the tray, she left them to enjoy its contents.
“Long life to Betty!” said Rhoda. “Here, Phoebe! pour me a dish of chocolate. I never get any at home. Madam has a notion it makes people fat.”
“But does she not like you to take it?” asked Phoebe, pausing, with the silver chocolatière in her hand.
“Oh, pother! go on!” exclaimed Rhoda. “Give it me, if your tender conscience won’t let you. I say, Phoebe, you’ll be a regular prig and prude, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t know what those are,” replied Phoebe, furtively engaged in rubbing her hand where Rhoda had pinched it as she seized the handle of the chocolate pot.
“Oh, don’t you?” answered Rhoda. “I do, for I’ve got you to look at. A prig is a stuck-up silly creature, and a prude is always thinking everything wicked. And that’s what you are.”
Phoebe wisely made no reply. Tea finished, Rhoda condescended to be dressed and have her hair curled and powdered, gave Phoebe very few minutes for changing her own dress, and then, followed by her cousin and handmaid, she descended to the drawing-room. To Phoebe’s consternation, it seemed full of young ladies and gentlemen, in fashionable array; and the consternation was not relieved by a glimpse of Mr Marcus Welles, radiant in blue and gold, through a vista of plumes, lace lappets, and fans. Betty was there, making herself generally useful and agreeable; and Molly, making herself the reverse of both. Phoebe scanned the brilliant crowd earnestly for Gatty. But Gatty was nowhere to be seen.