“This afternoon, Madam!”
“That is right! I am so pleased. I was afraid he would want a good deal of management. And you’ve no more notion how to manage a man than that parrot. I should have to do it all myself.”
“I beg your pardon, Madam,” said Phoebe, with some dignity; “I gave him an answer.”
“Of course, you did, my dear. I am only afraid—sometimes, my dear Phoebe, you let your shyness get the better of you till you seem quite silly—I am afraid, I say, that you would hardly speak with becoming warmth. Still—”
“I think, Madam, I was as warm as you would have wished me,” said Phoebe, drily.
“Oh, of course, there is a limit, my dear,” said Mrs Latrobe, bridling. “Well, I am so glad that it is settled. ’Tis just what I was wishing for you.”
“I fear, Madam, you misconceive me,” said Phoebe, looking up, “and ’tis settled the other way from what you wished.”
“Child, what can you mean?” asked Mrs Latrobe, with sudden sharpness. “You never can have refused such an excellent offer? What did you say to Mr Welles?”
“I sent him away, and told him never to come near me again.” Phoebe spoke with warmth enough now.
“Phoebe, you must be a lunatic!” burst from her mother. “I could not have believed you would be guilty of such supreme, unpardonable folly!”