"Oh, but she isn't."
And he listened while she gave him a long list of Mary's charms. (Dear little, tender, unconscious Phœbe.)
"She sounds," he said, "very like you."
"She isn't the least bit like me. You don't know me."
"Don't I?"
"Mary's coming back at the end of the month. Then either I or Effie will go away. Do you think you'll still be here?"
He seemed to her to answer absently.
"Which of you, did you say, was going away?"
"Well—it's Effie's turn."
"Yes," he said, "I think I shall still be here."