Mrs. Dinks raised her eyebrows, and again touched her face gently with the handkerchief.  Mrs. Dagon rubbed her glasses and waited, for she knew very well that Mrs. Dinks had not yet discovered what she had come to learn.  The old General was not deceived by the light skirmishing.

“I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Newt before he went down town,” began Mrs. Dinks, after a pause.  “But since we must all know these matters sooner or later—­that is to say, those of us whose business it is”—­here she glanced at Mrs. Dagon—­“you and I, my dear Mrs. Newt, may talk confidentially.  How much will your husband probably allow Fanny until Alfred comes into his property?”

Mrs. Dinks leaned back and folded her shawl closely around her, and Mrs. Dagon hemmed and smiled a smile of perfect incredulity.

“Gracious, gracious!  Mrs. Dinks, Mr. Newt won’t give her a cent!” answered Mrs. Newt.  As she uttered the words Mrs. Dagon held the enemy in full survey.

Mrs. Dinks was confounded.  That there would be some trouble in arranging the matter she had expected.  But the extreme dolefulness of Mrs. Newt had already perplexed her; and the prompt, simple way in which she answered this question precluded the suspicion of artifice.  Something was clearly, radically wrong.  She knew that Alfred had six hundred a year from his father.  She had no profound respect for that gentleman; but men are willful.  Suppose he should take a whim to stop it?  On the other side, she knew that Boniface Newt was an obstinate man, and that fathers were sometimes implacable.  Sometimes, even, they did not relent in making their wills.  She knew all about Miss Van Boozenberg’s marriage with Tom Witchet, for it was no secret in society.  Was it possible her darling Alfred might be in actual danger of such penury—­at least until he came into his property?  And what property was it, and what were the chances that old Burt would leave him a cent?

These considerations instantly occupied her mind as Mrs. Newt spoke; and she saw more clearly than ever the necessity of propitiating old Burt.

At length she asked, with an undismayed countenance, and with even a show of smiling: 

“But, Mrs. Newt, why do you take so cheerless a view of your husband’s intentions in this matter?”

The words that her husband had spoken in his wrath had rung in Mrs. Newt’s mind ever since, and they now fell, echo-like, from her tongue.

“Because he said that, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed she has made.”

Mrs. Dinks could not help showing a little chagrin.  It was the sign for Mrs. Newt to burst into fresh sorrow.  Mrs. Dagon was as rigid as a bronze statue.

“Very well, then, Mrs. Newt,” said her visitor, rising, “Mr. Newt will have the satisfaction of seeing his daughter starve.”

“Oh, her husband will take care of that,” said the bronze statue, blandly.

“My son Alfred,” continued Mrs. Dinks, “has an allowance of six hundred dollars a year, no profession, and expectations from his grand-uncle.  These are his resources.  If his father chooses, he can cut off his allowance.  Perhaps he will.  You can mention these facts to Mr. Newt.”