“Go!” gasped Phoebe. “Go whither, Madam?”
“I shall offer her the choice of two things, my clear. She can either go to service, in which case I will not refuse to take the trouble to look out a service for her—I am wishful to let her down gently, and be very good to her; or, if she prefer that, she may have my Lady Betty’s house as soon as she is gone. Have you any idea which she will choose?”
“Service! The Maidens’ Lodge! Rhoda!”
“My dear Phoebe, how very absurd you are. What do you mean by such foolish ejaculations? Rhoda will be uncommonly well off. You forget she has the interest of her money, and she has some good jewellery; she may make a decent match yet, if she is wise. But in the meantime, she must live somehow. Of course I could not keep her here—it would spoil your prospects, simpleton! She has a better figure than you, and she has more to say for herself. You must not expect any body to look at you while she is here.”
“Oh, never mind that!” came from the depth of Phoebe’s heart.
“But, my dear, I do mind it. I must mind it. You do not understand these things, Phoebe. Why, I do believe, with a very little encouragement—which I mean him to have—Mr Welles himself would offer for you.”
“That is over, Madam.”
“What is over? Phoebe! what do you mean? Has Mr Welles really spoken to you?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“When, my dear?” asked Mrs Latrobe, in a tone of deep interest.