'You'll not grow fat on Great Langdale,' said Miss Anna, waving an
ironical hand towards the green desolation of the valley.

He looked at her, walked up and down a moment, then said with an
outburst, though in a low tone, and with a look over his shoulder at
the open window of the cottage, 'Morrison's lent me a hundred pounds.
He advises me to go to London at once.'

Miss Anna raised her eyebrows. 'Oh--oh!' she said--'_that's_ news!
What do you mean by "at once"?--September?'

'Next week--I won't lose a day.'

Miss Anna pondered.

'Well, I dare say Phoebe can hurry up.'

'Oh! I can't take Phoebe,' he said, in a hasty, rather injured voice.

'Not take Phoebe!' cried the other under her breath, seeming to hear
around her the ghosts of words which had but just passed between her
and Phoebe--'and what on earth are you going to do with her?'

He led her away towards the edge of the little garden--arguing,
prophesying, laying down the law.

While he was thus engaged came Phoebe's silver voice from the parlour:

'Is that you, John? Supper's ready.'