“Shall I have the honour of escorting you to Barton Hall?” he said; for by this time the ladies had left the summer-house.
“We shall be honoured by so much condescension,” said Phœbe, smiling archly. “Shall we not, Amy?”
“Very much so indeed,” said Miss Somerton; “and perhaps Mr. Tallant will entertain us with the latest fashionable news.”
“By all means,” said Richard. “Lady Cooling has run away with her groom; Viscount Fusswell has married the piquante Miss Morris,—she was a governess, I think, or something of the sort, and she’s a deuced jolly girl. Do you care about scandal, Miss Somerton, by the way, or will you have another sort of gossip?”
“Ask Miss Tallant, sir,” said Amy. “I have no right of choice in this matter.”
“Then I don’t like it,” said Phœbe. “What is that little poem I was reading the other day somewhere?” she said stopping, and tapping her foot with her climbing-staff.
“Ah, what is it, Phœbe?
‘Phœbe, dearest,
Tell, oh tell me,’”
said Richard, humming one of the English tenor’s favourite ballads.