Phoebe seemed rather troubled to have annoyed her cousin, though she evidently did not perceive how it had been effected. The girls tied on their hoods, and Rhoda, who was not really ill-natured, soon recovered herself when she got into the fresh air. "Now, while we are going across the Park," she said, "I will tell you something about the old gentlewomen. I couldn't this morning, you know, more than their names, because there was Madam listening. But now, hark! Mrs Dolly Jennings--the one who came in first, you know, and sat over against Lady Betty--I don't know what kin she is, but there is some kin between her and the Duchess of Marlborough. She is the oldest of the Maidens, and the best one to tell a story--except she falls to preaching, and then 'tis tiresome. Do you like sermons, Phoebe?" "It all depends who preaches them," said Phoebe. "Well, of course it does," said Rhoda. "I don't like anyone but Dr Harris--he has such white hands!" "He does not preach about them, does he?" said Phoebe, apparently puzzled as to the connection. "Oh, he nourishes them about, and discovers so many elegancies!" answered Rhoda. "But how does that make him preach better?" "Why, Phoebe, how stupid you are! But you must not interrupt me in that way, or I shall never be done. Mrs Dolly, you see, is seventy or more; and in her youth she was in the great world. So she has all manner of stories, and she'll always tell them when you ask her. I only wish she did not preach! Well, then, Mrs Jane Talbot--that one with the high nose, that sat next Mrs Dolly in the coach--she has lively parts enough, and that turn makes her very agreeable. I don't care for her sister, Mrs Marcella, that lives next her--she's always having some distemper, and I don't like sick people. Mrs Clarissa Vane is the least well-born of all of them; but she's been a toast, you see, and she fancies herself charming, poor old thing! As for Lady Betty--weren't you surprised? I believe Madam pays her a good lot to live there; it gives the place an air, you know. She is Sir Richard Delawarr's aunt, and he is the great man all about here--all the land that way belongs to him, as far as you can see. He is of very good family--an old Norman house. They are thought a great deal of, you know." "But isn't that strange?" said Phoebe, meditatively. "If Sir Richard is thought more of because his forefathers came from France six hundred years ago, why is my grandfather thought less of because he came from France thirty years ago?" "O Phoebe! It is not the same thing at all!" "But why is it not the same thing?" gently persisted Phoebe. "Oh, nonsense!" said Rhoda, cutting the knot peremptorily. "Phoebe, can you speak French?" "Yes." "Have a care you don't let Madam hear you! Who taught you?--your father?" "Yes. He said it was our own language." "Why, you don't mean to say he was _proud_ of being a Frenchman?" cried Rhoda, in amazement.