“Looking up.”

“Sure of it?”

“A leading Wall-street man told me, this afternoon, it would advance three per cent. this week.  I have a slight interest in watching it,” said Mr. Chiffield, smiling.

“So have I,” said Mr. Whedell, smiling also.

Daring their conversation, and the remainder of their financial dialogue, Mr. Whedell kept one ear, and occasionally one eye, inclined toward his daughter and the favored Maltboy.  If there was a hint conveyed in those side glances at his daughter, she either did not notice it, or did not choose to take it.  Sometimes Mr. Chiffield looked in the same direction, but casually, as it were, and without one sign of impatience visible in the depths of his calm brown eyes.  Mr. Chiffield was not a nervous man.

Matthew Maltboy was so perfectly free from selfishness at this moment, that he would cheerfully have spared a few words from Miss Whedell’s delightful monologue for the gratification of his late rival ("late” was now decidedly the word, in Maltboy’s opinion) over the way.  In the exercise of his large charity and compassion, he pitied that unfortunate, sadly disappointed dealer in dry goods.

This pity, as Matthew used to say in after days, was thrown away.  At the end of a brilliant description of a new set of quadrilles which Miss Whedell had danced at a sociable the night before, that young lady said, “Excuse me,” and crossed the room to a what-not in the corner, and searched for something among a pile of magazines and pictures.  The thought that she was making efforts to please him, tickled Matthew’s vanity.  While she was overhauling the pile, Mr. Whedell left his seat by Chiffield, and took the one just vacated by his daughter.  Matthew received him with the diplomatic courtesy due to the parent of one’s enchantress, and made a well-meant if not novel remark on the state of the weather.  Mr. Whedell mildly disputed his proposition (whatever it was)—­for Mr. W. was always disputatious on that subject—­and then passed to the consideration of national politics.  “The one topic natually suggests the other,” said Mr. Whedell, “for they are equally variable.”  This was one of the father’s few standard jokes; and Maltboy always laughed at it with the heartiness of a future son-in-law.  They then grappled with the great theme in earnest.

CHAPTER III.

PULLING IN.

Clementina, having found what she sought, glided to the chair which her father had relinquished, and said, coquettishly, “Now I have come to entertain you, Mr. Chiffield.  You were speaking of Niagara Falls, the other day.  Here are some photographs of them, taken for me on the spot.”  She handed the pictures to Mr. Chiffield.  That gentleman took them with a profound bow, glanced over them, and said, “How elegant!” “What rich scenery!” “How tasty they are got up, a’n’t they?” “This is the showiest picture;” “Here’s a neat one,” &c., &c., &c.  Mr. Chiffield had contracted the use of a certain class of highly descriptive adjectives in selling dry goods.  Clementina watched him narrowly, and thought how nicely she could manage this heavy fellow.