“I must needs ask your pardon, my Lady Betty, but I trust that is not the case,” said Mrs Dorothy, with a gentle smile. “Sure, happiness doth not depend on face nor figure?”
“The world mostly reckons so, I believe,” answered Lady Betty, with a responsive smile. “Maybe, we pick up such words, and use them, in something too heedless a manner.”
“I am mightily mistaken if Mrs Gatty do not prove the happiest of the three,” was Mrs Dorothy’s reply.
Mrs Dorothy rose to go home, and Phoebe took leave at the same time. She felt tired and harassed, and longed for the rest of a little quiet talk with her old friend.
“And how doth Mrs Rhoda take this, my dear?” was the old lady’s first question, when Phoebe had poured out her story.
“She seemed very much troubled at first, and angry; but I fancy she is getting over it now.”
“Which most?—troubled or angry?”
“I think—after a few minutes, at least—more angry.”
“Then she will quickly recover. I do not think she loved him, Phoebe. She liked him, I have no doubt: and she flattered herself that he loved her; but if she be more angry than hurt, that shows that her pride suffers rather than her love. At least,” said Mrs Dorothy, correcting herself, “I mean it looks so. Who am I, that I should judge her?”
“I wanted it to do her some good, Mrs Dolly. It seems hard to have the suffering, and not get the good.”