Amy started and blushed, and bent her head, spirited and full of mettle as she appeared to be a moment previously.
“Don’t blush, Amy dear. Do I know why you blush?” and Phœbe kissed her companion’s forehead.
“I am a vain, silly, stupid creature, Phœbe; and you must despise me.”
Phœbe only pressed her friend’s hand in reply.
“You must easily have read all my heart to-day,” Amy went on, trembling at her own temerity. “Paul’s letter, my hasty words this morning, my interest in his doings, my——”
“Of course, of course,” said Phœbe, quite in a reassuring, comforting way: “you love Mr. Hammerton. There, don’t start, my dearest, like that. I know you do, and why should you not?”
Pale and trembling Amy looked for a moment at her friend, and the tears started into her eyes.
“You must think me mad,” she said.
“Indeed I do not, my pet,” said Phœbe, quite cheerfully, and kissing Amy again. “It is natural to love a fine, dashing fellow like Mr. Hammerton; quite natural in a high-spirited girl like you.”
“It is madness, vanity, and everything that is weak,” said Amy.