The Snodgrasses, who were also at the choir practice, heard, like the rest, of Miss Trelawny’s plan, and the excitement of the information brought the curate out of his corner. “I don’t really care about going to Florence. I never did care,” he said hurriedly to his uncle. “Switzerland is what I should like most.” The rector shook his head, and called his dear Bill a goose; but yet, reflecting within himself that dear Bill was six feet high, and a fine specimen of a man (though not perhaps what is generally called handsome), and that Miss Trelawny had a fine fortune, and that Perseverance was the thing which carried the day, Mr. Snodgrass thought that perhaps, by chance, so to speak (if it were not an impious thing to speak of Chance), he might direct his steps to Switzerland too. So that a whole party of people were moved, and their intentions and destinations changed, by the impatience and disappointment of Sophy Norton at the prospect of an abrupt conclusion of her holiday. She thought herself, and with justice, an insignificant little person, yet it was she who had made all this commotion. In the meantime Sophy’s own head was full of her wardrobe, to the exclusion of other ideas. Should she have dresses enough for the summer? should she want another grey alpaca? or could she get on with what she had, with a new white frock, perhaps, and a dust-cloak? “There is nothing looks so nice as white,” said Sophy, regarding her wardrobe with an anxious pleasure. “In fine weather, my darling: but it always rains among the mountains, and a white dress, or a cotton dress of any kind, looks poor in bad weather.” This was a very serious question: for indeed she had a grey alpaca already, which was too good yet to be taken merely for a travelling-dress. It was the one which had been made up on the model of Diana’s beautiful new silk from M. Worth’s. This was a very perplexing problem, and one which gave them a great deal of trouble; but yet it was a happy kind of care.