e again was a welcome and fitting
mission for Cecily, and inclination as well as discretion therefore held
Phoebe aloof, preventing Maria from interfering, and trusting that Cecily
was becoming Bertha's Mr. Charlecote.

Mervyn came back sooner than she had expected him, having soon tired of
Corsica. His year of ill-health and of her attendance had made him
dependent on her; he did not enter into novelty or beauty without Bertha;
and his old restless demon of discontent made him impatient to return to
his ladies. So he took Phoebe by surprise, walking in as she was
finishing a letter to Augusta before joining the others in the olivettes.

'Well, Phoebe, how's Bertha? Ready to leave this hot-vapour-bath of a
hole?'

'I don't know what you will say to it now,' she answered looking down,
and a little tremulous. 'Who do you think is here?'

'Not Hastings? If he dares to show his nose here, I'll get him hissed
out of the place.'

'No, no, something very different.'

'Well, make haste,' he said, in the grim voice of a tired man.

'She is here--Cecily Raymond.'

'What of that?' He sat down, folded his arms, and crossed his ankles,
the picture of dogged indifference.

'Mervyn!'

'What does it matter to me who comes or goes? Don't stop to rehearse
arrivals, but ring for something to eat. An atrocious _mistral_! My
throat is like a turnpike road? Call it January? It is a mockery!'

Phoebe obeyed him; but she was in a ferment of wrath and consternation,
and clear of nothing save that Cecily must be prepared for his
appearance. She was leaving the room when he called her to ask what she
was doing.

'I am going to tell the others that you are come.'

'Where are they?'

'In the olive yards behind the hotel.'

'Don't be in such a hurry, and I'll come.'

'Thank you, but I had better go on before. Miss Raymond is with them.'

'It makes no odds to her. Stop a minute, I tell you. What is the matter
with her?' (Said with some uneasiness, hidden by gruffness.)

'She is not here for her own health, but Major Holmby is rheumatic.'

'Oh! that intolerable woman is here, is she? Then you may give Miss
Charlecote notice to pack up her traps, and we'll set off to-morrow!'

If a desire to box a man's ears ever tingled in Phoebe's fingers, it was
at that moment. Not trusting herself to utter a word, she went
up-stairs, put on her hat, and walked forth, feeling as if the earth had
suddenly turned topsy-turvy