“Oh, Molly, Molly!” said Betty, still laughing. “I thank you, in the name of present company,” added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in her eyes which was not mirth.
“Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me,” said Molly. “If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don’t you let it waste away for that piece of flummery. There’s Osmund Derwent breaking his for you, and I believe he has one. Take him—you’ll never do better; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I’ve spoken truth this time.—Now, Fib, aren’t you going to show such distinguished visitors into the parlour?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Phoebe; “I was listening to you.”
“Madam, I thank you for the compliment,” and, with a low courtesy, Molly gave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe.
“Phoebe, come here!” cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing her cousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, once the refectory of the Abbey. “Tell me, did Marcus Welles offer to you?”
“Yes,” said Phoebe, and said no more. “And you refused him?”
“Why, Rhoda, dear! Yes, of course.”
“Not for my sake, I hope. Phoebe, I would not marry him now, if he came with his hat full of diamonds.”
“Make your mind easy, dear. I never would have done.”
“Do you know, Phoebe, Aunt Anne has offered to put me in the Maidens’ Lodge?”