“Nonsense, nonsense, child!” Phœbe replied. “You are worthy the love of the finest gentleman in England.”
“Ah, Phœbe! you and I know but little of the world. Mr. Hammerton is as far above me as a prince is above a peasant. I am foolish, wickedly foolish, to have permitted my liking to have got the better of my judgment.”
“Why, I could almost venture to say Mr. Hammerton is in love with you as much as you are in love with him,” said Phœbe, cheerily.
Amy shook her head sadly, as she thought of the difference between them in rank and station.
“Bless me!” said Phœbe, divining her thoughts; “princes have married peasant-girls before now, and shall not an earl’s son—and only a younger son, remember—be proud of the love of a true and noble heart like yours?”
Phœbe grew quite eloquent and enthusiastic. “Consult your favourite poet when we return, Amy, and read about King Cophetua.”
“I need not ask you never to breathe a word of my silly confession to anyone at any time?” said Amy, now a little more like her former self.
“Trust me,” said Phœbe, as she gathered up her hat and cloak, which had lain upon the table.
“My feelings overcame me; but it is a relief now, even to have confided my weakness and vanity to you,” said Amy; and then the two impulsive beauties embraced each other again.
“Humph!” said Mr. Richard Tallant, “I must have a hand in this pretty little business.”