Phoebe said nothing. "I don't think," went on Molly, in a reflective tone, "that you can make a catch; but you can try. There is the chaplain--horrid old centipede! And there's old Walford"--Molly never favoured any man with a Mr to his name--"an ugly, spiteful old bear that nobody'll have: he's rich enough; and he might look your way if you play your cards well. Any way, you'll not have much chance else; so you'd better keep your eyes pretty well open. Now, Rhoda, come along, and we'll have some fun." And away went Molly and Rhoda, with a smiling assent from Madam. What a very repulsive, vulgar disagreeable girl this Molly Delawarr is! True, my gentle reader. And yet--does she do much more than say, in plain language, what a great number of Mollys are not ashamed to think? Phoebe's sensations, in view of the coming visit to the Court, were far removed from pleasure. Must she go? She braced up her courage, and ventured to ask. "If you please, Madam--" "Well, child?" was the answer, in a sufficiently gracious tone to encourage Phoebe to proceed. "Must I go with Mrs Rhoda to Delawarr Court, if you please, Madam?" "Why, of course, child." Madam's tone expressed surprise, though not displeasure. Phoebe swallowed her regret with a sigh, and tried to comfort herself with the thought of meeting Gatty, which was the only bright spot in the darkness. But would Gatty be there? Rhoda and Molly came in to tea arm-in-arm. "And how has my Lady Delawarr her health, Mrs Molly?" inquired Madam, as she poured out the refreshing fluid. Molly had allowed no time for inquiries on her first appearance. "Oh, _she's_ well enough," said Molly, carelessly. "And Mrs Betty is now fully recovered of her distemper?" "She's come out of the small-pox, and tumbled into the vapours," said Molly. "The vapours" was a most convenient term of that day. It covered everything which had no other name, from a pain in the toe to a pain in the temper, and was very frequently descriptive of the latter ailment. Betty's condition, therefore, as subject to this malady, excited little regret. "And how goes it with Mrs Gatty? Is she now my Lady Polesworth?" "My Lady Fiddlestrings!" responded Molly. "Not she--never will. Old Polesworth wanted a pretty face, and after Gatty's small-pox, why, you couldn't--" "Small-pox!" cried Madam and Rhoda in concert. "What, didn't you know?" answered Molly. "To be sure--took it the minute she got home. But that wasn't all, neither. Old Polesworth told Mum"--which meant Lady Delawarr--"that he might have stood small-pox, but he couldn't saintship; so Saint Gatty lost her chance, and much she'll ever see of such another. Dad and Mum were as mad as hornets. Dad said he'd have horsewhipped her if she'd been out of bed. Couldn't, _in_ bed, you see--wouldn't have looked well." "But, my dear, she could not help taking the small-pox?"