"All correct, of course. You don't know much, and that's a fact. Trust me for seeing to things being right. You would have to get up very early in the morning to get ahead of _me_. Now don't exasperate me by asking too many questions. Everything in time, so don't you be in a hurry. A spider ain't, when he's got a bluebottle in his web. Take a lesson from him." "I will, Jeremiah," said Mrs. Pamflett, humbly; "but who's the bluebottle, and who's the spider?" "There you are, asking questions again. You rile a fellow, that's what you do. Mother, what do you think of Phoebe?" "I don't think much of her," replied Mrs. Pamflett, shortly. She would not have answered so candidly had she not been taken off her guard. Her opinion of Phoebe, however, did not seem to disturb Jeremiah, who said: "Women never hit it, somehow. Is she proud?" "Yes." "I thought she was; but if any man can bring her to book, I can. Does she sauce you?" "She seldom speaks to me." "Women are the crookedest creatures going; they never answer straight. Does she sauce you?" "No." "Has she got a sweetheart?" "Not that I know of." "Does she receive letters?" "Only from her relations in Camden Town." "Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge," said Jeremiah, chuckling, and feeling his pocket, in which an acceptance for three hundred pounds with Mr. Lethbridge's name to it was safely secured. "I know something of _them_. Do you think she's in love?" "No." "It wouldn't matter if she was." And here Jeremiah paused, and gave himself up to thought, with his fingers stretched across his brows. Mrs. Pamflett observed him earnestly, but did not disturb him. "Mother, would you like to see me ride in my carriage--my own carriage?" "I should be the proudest woman in England, Jeremiah--my own Jeremiah!" "Stow that!" cried Jeremiah, holding her off. "No more buttons! You'd like to see me ride, in my carriage, would you? There are more unlikely things. You said I was good enough for any girl. Am I good enough for Phoebe?" "A million times too good, my boy," said Mrs. Pamflett, enthusiastically. "That's a blessing. She ought to be grateful. When I met her in the village she had a lot of parcels. Does she go shopping for you?" "Not she. Perhaps she's been buying some things for her birthday. She's going to give her aunt and uncle tea here." "Oho! And when _is_ Phoebe's birthday, mother?" "To-morrow." Jeremiah grinned, his eyes glittered. "I'm in luck's way," he said. "And now, mother, give me a glass of brandy and water, and I'll cut my lucky." "When shall I see you again, Jeremiah?" she asked, after mixing the beverage, which he tossed off with a relish. "Sooner than you expect. Oh, well, I don't mind telling you. I'm coming here to-morrow to wish Phoebe many happy returns. Ta-ta! Well, if you must kiss me--there you are, hugging me again! Why can't you do it gently?" CHAPTER XVI. TOM BARLEY HAS A SCENE WITH THE MISER.