He led her away towards the edge of the little garden—arguing, prophesying, laying down the law.
While he was thus engaged came Phoebe's silver voice from the parlour:
'Is that you, John? Supper's ready.'
He and Miss Anna turned.
'Hush, please!' said Fenwick to his companion, finger on lip; and they entered.
'You'll have got the money from Mr. Morrison, John?' said Phoebe, presently, when they were settled to their meal.
'Aye,' said Fenwick, 'that's all right. Phoebe, that's a real pretty dress of yours.'
Soft colour rose in the wife's cheeks.
'I'm glad you like it,' said Phoebe, soberly. Then looking up—
'John—don't give Carrie that!—it'll make her sick.'