“Well, I suppose you would like me to say I was glad: and I am not: so I can’t.”
“I don’t suppose it signifies to us whether you are glad or sorry,” snapped Rhoda. “But why aren’t you glad?—you never thought he’d marry you, surely?”
Phoebe said “No” with a little laugh, as she thought how very far she was from any such expectation, and how very much farther from any wish for it. But Rhoda was not satisfied.
“Well, then, what’s the matter?” said she.
“Do you want me to say, Cousin?”
“Of course I do! Should I have asked you if I didn’t?”
“I am afraid he does not love you.”
Rhoda sat up on her elbow, with an ejaculation of amazement.
“If I ever heard such nonsense? What do you know about it, you poor little white-faced thing?”
“I dare say I don’t know much about it,” said Phoebe, calmly; “but I know that if a man really loves one woman with all his heart, he won’t laugh and whisper and play with the fan of another, or else he is not worth anybody’s love. And I am afraid what Mr Welles wants is just your money and not you. I beg your pardon, Cousin Rhoda.”