“And I have sent her ten guineas.”
“I thank you very much, Madam.”
“I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible of the propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I think myself obliged to tell you, child, that ’tis on your account I have done so much as this.”
“I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you.”
“And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of Mr Edmundson.”
“If you please, Madam, I did not like him,” said Phoebe, honestly; “nor I think he did not me.”
“That would not much matter, my dear,” observed Madam, referring to the last clause. “But ’tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would be sorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better.”
“If you would allow me to say so, Madam,” answered Phoebe, modestly, yet decidedly, “I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am.”
Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herself for a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, though she was just going to pull them off. Then she said, “’Tis pity. Well! go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come to me at once, as you pass; I am drowsy to-night.”
“I say, Fib,” said Rhoda, who had adopted (from Molly) this not very complimentary diminutive for her cousin’s name, but only used it when she was in a good humour—“I say, Fib, what did Madam want of you?”