“Well, she wouldn’t think so, not a bit,” said Rhoda, still laughing. “She’d just be thunderstruck if Mr Edmundson, or anybody else in his place, refused the honour of marrying anybody related to her. Shouldn’t I like to see him do it! It would take her down a peg, I reckon.”
This last elegant expression was caught from Molly.
“Well, I am sure I would rather be refused than taken unwillingly.”
“Where did you get your notions. Fib? They are not the mode at all. You were born on the wrong side of fifty, I do think.”
“Which is the wrong side of fifty?” suggestively asked Phoebe.
“I wish you wouldn’t murder me with laughing,” said Rhoda. “Look here now: what shall I be married in?”
“White and silver, Mrs Marcella said, this morning.”
(“This morning!” Phoebe’s words came back no her. Was it only this morning?)
“Thank you! nothing so insipid for me. I think I’ll have pink and dove-colour. What do you say?”
“I don’t think I would have pink,” said Phoebe, mentally comparing that colour with Rhoda’s red and white complexion. “Blue would suit you better.”