“I always think people mean what they say, child, until I find they don’t,” said Mrs Dorothy. “Welcome, Miss Phoebe, my dear!”
“Oh, would you please to call me Phoebe?” said the owner of that name, blushing.
“So I will, my dear,” replied Mrs Dorothy, who was busy now pouring out the tea. “Mrs Rhoda, take a chair, child, and help yourself to bread and butter.”
Rhoda obeyed, and did not pass the plate to Phoebe.
“Mrs Dolly,” she said, interspersing her words with occasional bites, “I am really concerned about Phoebe. She hasn’t the least bit of sense.”
“Indeed, child,” quietly responded Mrs Dorothy, while Phoebe coloured painfully. “How doth she show it?”
“Why, she doesn’t care a straw for poetry?”
“Is it poetry you engaged her with?”
“What do you mean?” said Rhoda, rather pettishly. “It was my poetry.”
“Eh, dear!” said Mrs Dorothy, but there was a little indication of fun about her mouth. “Perhaps, my dear, you write lyrics, and your cousin hath more fancy for epical poetry.”