“Suppose you do something handsome, and swallow your medicine without a lozenge,” suggested Mrs Jane, walking in and presenting a glass to her sister. “’Tis time.”
“I am sure it can’t be, Jane! You are always making me swallow some nasty stuff. And as to taking it without a lozenge, I couldn’t do such a thing!”
“Stuff! You could, if you did,” said Mrs Jane. “Come, then,—here it is. I shouldn’t want one.”
“Oh, you!—you have not my fine feelings!” responded Mrs Marcella, sitting with the glass in her hand, and looking askance at its reddish-brown contents.
“Come, sup it up, and get it over,” said her sister. “O Jane!—you unfeeling creature!”
“’Twill be no better five minutes hence, I’m sure.”
“You see what I suffer, Clarissa!” wailed Mrs Marcella, gulping down the medicine, and pulling a terrible face. “Jane has no feeling for me. She never had. I am a poor despised creature whom nobody cares for. Well, I suppose I must bear it. ’Tis my fate. But what I ever did to be afflicted in this way! Oh, the world’s a hard place, and life’s a very, very dreary thing. Oh dear, dear!”
Phoebe Latrobe, who had been sent by Madam to tell the news at the Maidens’ Lodge, sat quietly listening in a corner. But when Mrs Marcella began thus to play her favourite tune, Phoebe rose and took her leave. She called on Lady Betty, who expressed her gratification in the style of measured propriety which characterised her. Lastly, with a slow and rather tired step, she entered the gate of Number One. She had left her friend Mrs Dorothy to the last.
“Just in time for a dish of tea, child!” said little Mrs Dorothy, with a beaming smile. “Sit you down, my dear, and take off your hood, and I will have the kettle boiling in another minute. Well, and how have you enjoyed your visit? You look tired, child.”
“Yes, I feel tired,” answered Phoebe. “I scarce know how I enjoyed the visit, Mrs Dorothy—there were things I liked, and there were things I didn’t like.”