And Phoebe’s voice trembled a little. Evidently her father was in her eyes a hero, and all that he had loved was sacred.
“But, Phoebe! not greater than England? He couldn’t!” cried Rhoda, to whom such an idea seemed an impossibility.
“He was fond of England, too,” said Phoebe. “He said she had sheltered us when our own country cast us off, and we should love her and be very thankful to her. But he loved France the best.”
Rhoda tried to accept this incredible proposition.
“Well! ’tis queer!” she said at last. “Proud of being a Frenchman! What would Madam say?”
“’Tis only like Sir Richard Delawarr, is it?”
“Phoebe, you’ve no sense!”
“Well, perhaps I haven’t,” said Phoebe meekly, as they turned in at the gate of Number One.
Mrs Dolly Jennings was ready for her guests, in her little parlour, with the most delicate and transparent china set out upon the little tea-table, and the smallest and brightest of copper kettles singing on the hob.
“Well, you thought I meant it, Mrs Dolly!” exclaimed Rhoda laughingly, as the girls entered.