world for himself, and took pains to make himself generally
agreeable and interesting. Under his kindly notice Phoebe opened like a
flower to the sun. It was something new to her to find a sensible,
grown-up person who really seemed to take pleasure in talking with her--
except Mrs Dorothy Jennings, and she and Phoebe were not on a level.
In conversation with Mrs Dorothy she felt herself being taught and
counselled; in conversation with Mr Derwent she was entertained and
gratified.

Judging from his conduct, Mr Derwent was as much pleased with Phoebe as
she was with him. During the whole time she remained at Delawarr Court,
he constituted himself her cavalier. He was always at hand when she
wanted anything, at times supplying the need even before she had
discovered its existence. Phoebe tasted, for the first time in her
life, the flattering ease of being waited on, instead of waiting on
others; the delicate pleasure of being listened to, instead of snubbed
and disregarded; the intellectual treat of finding one who was willing
to exchange ideas with her, rather than only to impart ideas to her.
Was it any wonder if Osmund Derwent began to form a nucleus in her
thoughts, round which gathered a floating island of fair fancies and
golden visions, all the more beautiful because they were vague?

And all the while, Phoebe never realised what was happening to her. She
let herself drift onwards in a pleasant dream, and never thought of
pausing to analyse her sensations.

The absentees returned home in the afternoon of the third day. And
beyond the roll of the coaches, and the noise and bustle inseparable
from the arrival of eighteen persons, the first intimation of it which
was given in the drawing-room was caused by the entrance of Molly, who
swept into the room with tragi-comic dignity, and mounting a chair,
cleared her voice, and held forth, as if it had been a sceptre, a minute
bow of black gauze ribbon.

"Ladies and gentlewomen!" said Molly with solemnity. "(The gentlemen
don't count.) Ladies and gentlewomen! I engaged myself, before leaving
the Court, to bring back to you in triumph a snip from the Queen's gown.
Behold it! (Never mind how I got it,--here it is.) Upon honour, as
sure as my name is Mary--('tisn't,--I was christened Maria)--but, as
sure as there is one rent and two spots of mud on this white gown which
decorates my charming person,--the places whereof are best known to
myself,--this bow of ga