When the neighbours remarked on Mrs. Fulmort's improved looks and spirits, and wondered whether they were the effect of the Rhine or of 'getting off' her eldest daughter, they knew not how many fewer dull hours she had to spend. Phoebe visited her in her bedroom, talked at luncheon, amused her drives, coaxed her into the garden, read to her when she rested before dinner, and sang to her afterwards. Phoebe likewise brought her sister's attainments more into notice, though at the expense of Bertha's contempt for mamma's preference for Maria's staring fuchsias and feeble singing, above her own bold chalks from models and scientific music, and indignation at Phoebe's constantly bringing Maria forward rather than her own clever self. Droning narrative, long drawn out, had as much charm for Mrs. Fulmort as for Maria. If she did not always listen, she liked the voice, and she sometimes awoke into descriptions of the dresses, parties, and acquaintance of her youth, before trifling had sunk into dreary insipidity under the weight of too much wealth, too little health, and 'nothing to do.' 'My dear,' she said, 'I am glad you are not out. Quiet evenings are so good for my nerves; but you are a fine girl, and will soon want society.' 'Not at all, mamma; I like being at home with you.' 'No, my dear! I shall like to take you out and see you dressed. You must have advantages, or how are you to marry?' 'There's no hurry,' said Phoebe, smiling. 'Yes, my dear, girls always get soured if they do not marry!' 'Not Miss Charlecote, mamma.' 'Ah! but Honor Charlecote was an heiress, and could have had plenty of offers. Don't talk of not marrying, Phoebe, I beg.' 'No,' said Phoebe, gravely. 'I should like to marry some one very good and wise, who could help me out of all my difficulties.' 'Bless me, Phoebe! I hope you did not meet any poor curate at that place of Honor Charlecote's. Your papa would never consent.' 'I never met anybody, mamma,' said Phoebe, smiling. 'I was only thinking what he should be like.' 'Well, what?' said Mrs. Fulmort, with girlish curiosity. 'Not that it's any use settling. I always thought I would marry a marquis's younger son, because it is such a pretty title, and that he should play on the guitar. But he must not be an officer, Phoebe; we have had trouble enough about that.' 'I don't know what he is to be, mamma,' said Phoebe, earnestly, 'except that he should be as sensible as Miss Fennimore, and as good as Miss Charlecote. Perhaps a man could put both into one, and then he could lead me, and always show me the reason of what is right.' 'Phoebe, Phoebe! you will never get married if you wait for a philosopher. Your papa would never like a very clever genius or an author.' 'I don't want him to be a genius, but he must be wise.'