'At least you will vouchsafe to trust yourself with me for the Lancers,' said Owen, as Cilla's partner came to claim her, and Phoebe rejoiced in anything to change the tone of the conversation; still, however, asking, as he led her off, what had become of the poor schoolmistress. 'Gone home, very sensibly,' said Owen; 'if she is wise she will know how to trust to Cilly's invitations! People that do everything at once never do anything well. It is quite a rest to turn to any one like you, Phoebe, who are content with one thing at a time! I wish--' 'Well, then, let us dance,' said Phoebe, abruptly; 'I can't do that well enough to talk too.' It was not that Owen had not said the like things to her many times before; it was his eagerness and fervour that gave her an uncomfortable feeling. She was not sure that he was not laughing at her by putting on these devoted airs, and she felt herself grown up enough to put an end to being treated as a child. He made her a profound bow in a mockery of acquiescence, and preserved absolute silence during the first figures, but she caught his eye several times gazing on her with looks such as another might have interpreted into mingled regret and admiration, but which were to her simply discomfiting and disagreeable, and when he spoke again, it was not in banter, but half in sadness. 'Phoebe, how do you like all this?' 'I think I could like it very much.' 'I am almost sorry to hear you say so; anything that should tend to make you resemble others is detestable.' 'I should be very sorry not to be like other people.' 'Phoebe, you do not know how much of the pleasure of my life would be lost if you were to become a mere conventional young lady.' Phoebe had no notion of being the pleasure of any one's life except Robin's and Maria's, and was rather affronted that Owen should profess to enjoy her childish ignorance and _naivete_. 'I believe,' she said, 'I was rude just now when I told you not to talk. I am sorry for it; I shall know better next time.' 'Your knowing better is exactly what I deprecate. But there it is; unconsciousness is the charm of simplicity. It is the very thing aimed at by Rashe and Cilly, and all their crew, with their eccentricities.' 'I am sorry for it,' seriously returned Phoebe, who had by this time, by quiet resistance, caused him to land her under the lee of Miss Charlecote, instead of promenading with her about the room. He wanted her to dance with him again, saying she owed it to him for having sacrificed the first to common humanity, but great as was the pleasure of a polka, she shrank from him in this complimentary mood, and declared she should dance no more that evening. He appealed to Honora, who, disliking to have her boy balked of even a polka, asked Phoebe if she were _very_ tired, and considering her 'rather not' as equivalent to such a confession, proposed a retreat to their own room.