“Odd, but not without the coin.  He can afford to be odd,” replied that gentleman.

While these little things were said and done, Lawrence moved through the crowd and somehow found himself at the side of Amy Waring, who was talking with Fanny Newt.

“You young Napoleon,” said Lawrence to his niece as he joined them.

“What do you mean, you droll Uncle Lawrence?” demanded Fanny, her eyes glittering with inquiry.

“Where’s Mrs. Wurmser—­I mean Mrs. Dinks?” continued Lawrence.  “Why, when I saw you talking together a little while ago, I could think of nothing but the young Bonaparte and the old Wurmser.”

“You droll Uncle Lawrence, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

It was an astuter young Napoleon than Uncle Lawrence knew.  Even then and there, in Mrs. Kingfisher’s ball-room, had Fanny Newt resolved how to carry her Mantua by a sudden coup.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

HEAVEN’S LAST BEST GIFT.

“My dear Alfred, I am glad to see you.  You may kiss me—­carefully, carefully!”

Mr. Alfred Dinks therewith kissed lips upon his return from Boston.

“Sit down, Alfred, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Fanny Newt, with even more than her usual decision.  The eyes were extremely round and black.  Alfred seated himself with vague trepidation.

“My dear, we must be married immediately,” remarked Fanny, quietly.

The eyes of the lover shone with pleasure.

“Dear Fanny!” said he, “have you told mother?”

“No,” answered she, calmly.

“Well, but then you know—­” rejoined Alfred.  He would have said more, but he was afraid.  He wanted to inquire whether Fanny thought that her father would supply the sinews of matrimony.  Alfred’s theory was that he undoubtedly would.  He was sure that a young woman of Fanny’s calmness, intrepidity, and profound knowledge of the world would not propose immediate matrimony without seeing how the commissariat was to be supplied.  She has all her plans laid, of course, thought he—­she is so talented and cool that ’tis all right, I dare say.  Of course she knows that I have nothing, and hope for nothing except from old Burt, and he’s not sure for me, by any means.  But Boniface Newt is rich enough.

And Alfred consoled himself by thinking of the style in which that worthy commission merchant lived, and especially of his son Abel’s expense and splendor.

“Alfred, dear—­just try not to be trying, you know, but think what you are about.  Your mother has found out that something has gone wrong—­that you are not engaged to Hope Wayne.”

“Yes—­yes, I know,” burst in Alfred; “she treated me like a porcupine this morning—­or ant-eater, which is it, Fanny—­the thing with quills, you know?”

Miss Fanny Newt patted the floor with her foot.  Alfred continued: 

“Yes, and Hope sent down, and she wanted to see me alone some time to-day.”