“Sure,” said Phoebe, looking up, “you would never have had me marry a man whom I despised in my heart?”
“Despised! I protest, Phoebe, you are worse and worse. What do you mean by saying you despise Mr Welles? A man of excellent manners and faultless taste, of good family, with an estate of three thousand a year, and admirable prospects when his old uncle dies, who is nearly seventy now—why, Phoebe, you must be a perfect fool! I am amazed at you beyond words.”
There was a light in Phoebe’s eyes which was beyond Mrs Latrobe’s comprehension.
“Mother!” came from the girl’s lips, with a soft intonation—“Father would not have asked me to do that!”
“Really, my dear, if you expect that I am to rule myself by your father’s notions, you expect a great deal too much. He was not a man of the world at all—”
“He was not!”
“Not in the least!—and he had not the faintest idea what would be required of you when you came to your present position. Don’t quote him, I beg of you!—Well, really, Phoebe—I don’t know what to do now. I wish I had known of it! Still I don’t see, if he were determined to speak to you, how I could have prevented you from making such a goose of yourself. I do wish he had asked me! I should have accepted him at once for you, and not given you the chance to refuse. What did you say to him? Is it quite hopeless to try and win him back?”
“Quite,” said Phoebe, shortly.
“But I want to know exactly what you said.”
“I told him I believed he wanted the estate, and not me; and that after behaving to my cousin as he did, he did not need to expect to get either it or me.”