Mr Welles bowed low over Mrs Latrobe’s extended hand.
“Madam, the delight is mine, and the honour. Mrs Phoebe, your servant,—your most humble servant.”
It was the first time that Mr Welles had ever addressed Phoebe with more than a careless “good evening.”
“Ready to serve you, Sir,” said she, courtesying. “Shall I seek my cousin? She has wanted your company, I think.”
This was a very audacious speech for Phoebe: but she thought it so extraordinary that Mr Welles had not paid one visit to his betrothed since the funeral, that she took the liberty of reminding him of it.
“Madam,” said Mr Welles, with a complacent smile, toying with his gold chatelaine, “I really could not have visited you sooner, under the circumstances in which I found myself.”
“Phoebe! have you lost your senses?” inquired Mrs Latrobe, sharply.
“I am sure,” resumed Mr Marcus Welles, with an extremely graceful wave of his hand towards Mrs Latrobe, “that Madam will fully enter into my much lacerated feelings, and see how very distressing ’twould have been both to myself and her, had I forced my company on Mrs Rhoda, as matters stand at present.”
Phoebe sat listening with a face of utter bewilderment. By what means had Mr Welles’ feelings been lacerated?—and why should it be more distressing for him to meet Rhoda now than before?—But she kept silence, and Mrs Latrobe said,—
“I think, Sir, I have the honour to understand you.”