“Like enough, poor soul!” responded Mrs Jane. “Only chance he had of any peace. He was a decent fellow enough, too,—if only he had kept clear of Nancy.”
“What made him marry her?” thoughtfully asked Mrs Eleanor.
“Deary me!” exclaimed Mrs Jane. “When did you ever see a man that could fathom a woman? Good, simple soul that he was!—she made him think black was white with holding up a finger. She glistened bravely, and he thought she was gold. Well!—we shan’t have much peace now,—take my word for it. Eh, this world!—’tis a queer place as ever I saw.”
“True, my dear,” replied Mrs Dorothy: “let us therefore be thankful there is a better.”
But her opinion of Mrs Latrobe was not given.
The same evening, as Phoebe sat in the parlour with her mother, Betty came in with a courtesy.
“Mr Marcus Welles, to speak with Madam.”
“With Mrs Rhoda?” asked Phoebe, rising. “I will go seek her.”
“No, if you please, Mrs Phoebe: Mr Welles said, Madam or yourself.”
“Phoebe, my dear, do not be such a fid-fad!” entreated Mrs Latrobe. “If Rhoda is wanted, she can be sought.—Good evening, Sir! I am truly delighted to have the pleasure of seeing you, and I trust we shall be better acquainted.”