“A good way!—where?” rejoined her cousin.
“To France and back,” said Phoebe, with a smile.
“What are you talking about?” stared Rhoda. “I said nothing about France; I was telling you not to be a prig and a saint, and make Madam angry.”
“I won’t vex her if I can help it,” answered Phoebe.
“Well, but you will, if you set up to be better than your neighbours,—that’s pos.! Take the pins out of my commode.”
“Why should not I be better than my neighbours?” asked Phoebe, as she pulled out the pins.
“Because they’ll all hate you—that’s why. I must have clean ruffles—they are in that top drawer.”
“Aren’t you better than your neighbours?” innocently suggested Phoebe, coming back with the clean ruffles.
Rhoda paused to consider how she should deal with the subject. The question was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very much better, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishes and convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture. There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe was incapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, which made it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highly indecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On the whole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation.
“Oh, not these ruffles, Phoebe! These are some of my best. Bring a pair of common ones—those with the box plaits.—What were you thinking about France?”