There was a long pause. Each of the women seemed bent on forcing the other to break the silence.
Poor Droop felt that his plans were doomed, and he dared not urge either woman to speech, lest he hear the death-sentence of his hopes. Finally, however, the awkward silence became unbearable.
"Well?" he said, inquiringly, still rubbing his hands.
"Well," Rebecca exclaimed, "it seems it's not to be done," and she looked reproachfully at Phœbe.
The words fulfilled his fears, but the tone and glance produced a thrill of hope. It was evident that Rebecca at least favored his plans.
Turning now to the younger sister, Droop asked, in a melancholy tone:
"Don't you want to get rich, Cousin Phœbe?"
"Rich—me!" she replied, indignantly. "A mighty lot of riches it'll bring me, won't it? That's just what riles me so! You an' Rebecca just think of nothin' but your own selves. You never stop to think of me!"
Droop opened his eyes very wide indeed, and Rebecca said, earnestly:
"Phœbe, you know you ain't got any call to say sech a thing!"