Miss Charlecote's house was a delightful marvel to Phoebe from the moment when she rattled into the paved court, entered upon the fragrant odour of the cedar hall, and saw the Queen of Sheba's golden locks beaming with the evening light. She entered the drawing-room, pleasant-looking already, under the judicious arrangement of the housekeeper, who had set out the Holt flowers and arranged the books, so that it seemed full of welcome. Phoebe ran from window to mantelpiece, enchanted with the quaint mixture of old and new, admiring carving and stained glass, and declaring that Owen had not prepared her for anything equal to this, until Miss Charlecote, going to arrange matters with her housekeeper, left the brother and sister together. 'Well, Robin!' said Phoebe, coming up to him anxiously. He only crossed his arms on the mantelpiece, rested his head on them, and sighed. 'Have you seen her?' 'Not to speak to her.' 'Have you called?' 'No.' 'Then where did you see her?' 'She was riding in the Park. I was on foot.' 'She could not have seen you!' exclaimed Phoebe. 'She did,' replied Robert; 'I was going to tell you. She gave me one of her sweetest, brightest smiles, such as only she can give. You know them, Phoebe. No assumed welcome, but a sudden flash and sparkle of real gladness.' 'But why--what do you mean?' asked Phoebe; 'why have you not been to her? I thought from your manner that she had been neglecting you, but it seems to me all the other way.' 'I cannot, Phoebe; I cannot put my poor pretensions forward in the set she is with. I know they would influence her, and that her decision would not be calm and mature.' 'Her decision of what you are to be?' 'That is fixed,' said Robert, sighing. 'Indeed! With papa.' 'No, in my own mind. I have seen enough of the business to find that I could in ten years quadruple my capital, and in the meantime maintain her in the manner she prefers.' 'You are quite sure she prefers it?' 'She has done so ever since she could exercise a choice. I should feel myself doing her an injustice if I were to take advantage of any preference she may entertain for me to condemn her to what would be to her a dreary banishment.' 'Not with you,' cried Phoebe. 'You know nothing about it, Phoebe. You have never led such a life, and you it would not hurt--attract, I mean; but lovely, fascinating, formed for admiration, and craving for excitement as she is, she is a being that can only exist in society. She would be miserable in homely retirement--I mean she would prey on herself. I could not ask it of her. If she consented, it would be without knowing her own tastes. No; all that remains is to find out whether she can submit to owe her wealth to our business.' 'And shall you?'