Phoebe, Junior by Margaret Oliphant

The day which had intervened between Phoebe's morning walk, and this darkling flight along the same road, had been full of agitation at the house of the Tozers. Phoebe, who would willingly have spared her lover anything more than the brief intercourse which was inevitable with her relations, could find no means of sending him away without breakfast. She had escaped from him accordingly, weary as she was, to make arrangements for such a meal as she knew him, even in his most sentimental mood, to love -- a thing which required some time and supervision, though the house was always plentifully provided. When she had hastily bathed her face and changed her dress she came back to the room where she had left him, to find him in careless conversation with Tozer, who only half-recovered from the excitement of last night, but much overawed by a visit from so great a personage, had managed to put aside the matter which occupied his own thoughts, in order to carry on a kind of worship of Clarence, who was the son of the richest man he had ever heard of, and consequently appeared to the retired butterman a very demigod. Clarence was yawning loudly, his arms raised over his head in total indifference to Tozer, when Phoebe came into the room; and the old man seized upon the occasion of her entrance to perform another act of worship.

"Ah, here's Phoebe at last. Mr. Copperhead's come in from the country, my dear, and he's going to make us proud, he is, by accepting of a bit of breakfast. I tell him it's a wretched poor place for him as has palaces at his command; but what we can give him is the best quality, that I answers for -- and you're one as knows how things should be, even if we ain't grand ourselves."