Phoebe would stop a month, for with all her faults she does
like a respectable family. And then, if they go to church, are they to
have our pew, and is Mrs. Colston to call on me and say, 'How is
Catharine, and how is your _son-in-law_?' And then--oh dear, oh dear!--is
his father to come here too, and is Catharine to bring him, and is he to
be at the wedding breakfast? And perhaps Mrs. Colston will inquire after
him too. But there, I shall not survive _that_! Oh! Catharine,
Catharine!"

Mrs. Furze dropped on the chair opposite the looking-glass, for she was
arranging her back hair while this monologue was proceeding, although the
process was interrupted here and there when her emotions got the better
of her. Her hair fell into confusion again, and it seemed as if she
would again be upset even at that early hour. Her husband gave her a
smelling-bottle, and she slowly recommenced her toilette.

"Would it not," he said, "be as well to try and soften her a bit, and
remind her of her duty to her parents?"

"You might finish up with that, but I don't believe she'd care; and what
are we to do if she owns it all and sticks out? That's what I want to
know."

Mr. Furze was silent.

"There you sit, Furze; you _are_ provoking! Pick up that hairpin, will
you? You always sit and sit whenever there's any difficulty. You never
go beyond what I have in my own head, and when I _do_ stir you up to
think it is sure to be something of no use."

"I'll do anything you want," said the pensive husband as his wife rose
and put on her cap. "I've told you before I'll get rid of Tom, and then
perhaps it will all come round!"

"At it again! What _did_ I tell you last night?--and yet you go on with
your old tune. All come round, indeed! Would it! She's your daughter,
but you don't know her as I do."

Here there came a tap at the door. It was Phoebe: Miss Catharine sent
her to say it was a quarter-past eight: should she make the coffee?

"Look at that!" said Mrs. Furze: "shall she make the coffee!--after what
has happened! That's the kind of girl she is. It strikes me you had
better have nothing to do with her and leave her to me."

Phoebe tapped again.

"Certainly not," replied Mrs. Furze. "I'll begin," she added to her
husband, "by letting her know that at least I am not dead."

"We'll, we'd better go. You just tackle her, and I'll chime in."

The couple descended, but their plan of campaign was not very clearly