Lawrence Newt laughed.

“You don’t mean Pelham?” said he.

“No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb.  But you ought to know your own nephew, Mr. Newt,” answered Amy.

“Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him,” said Mr. Newt.

“I don’t exactly like him,” said Arthur Merlin, with perfect candor.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” replied Amy, looking up.

Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but he felt as if he did, so that he unwittingly spoke so.

“No, no,” said he, hastily; “I don’t know him, I believe; but I know about him.”

As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been sitting, working, in perfect silence.  At the same moment she raised her eyes to his inquiringly.

“I mean,” said Arthur, quite confused, “that I don’t—­somehow—­that is to say, you know, there’s a sort of impression you get about people—­”

Lawrence Newt interposed—­

“I suppose that Arthur doesn’t like Abel for the same reason that oil doesn’t like water; for the same reason that you, Miss Amy, and Miss Wayne, would probably not like such a man.”

Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne.

“What kind of man is Mr. Newt?” asked Hope, faintly coloring.  She was trying herself.

“Don’t you know him?” asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly.

“Yes,” replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more rapidly.

“Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?” continued Arthur, nervously.

“That is not the question,” answered Hope, calmly.

Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring looked on during this little conversation.  They both wanted Hope to like Arthur.  They both doubted how Abel might have impressed her.  Lawrence Newt had not carelessly said that neither Amy nor Hope would probably like Abel.

“Miss Hope is right, Arthur,” said he.  “She asks what kind of man my nephew is.  He is a brilliant man—­a fascinating man.”

“So was Colonel Burr,” said Hope Wayne, without looking up.

“Exactly, Miss Hope.  You have mentioned the reason why neither you nor Amy would like my nephew.”

Hope and Amy understood.  Arthur Merlin was bewildered.

“I don’t quite understand,” said he; “I am such a great fool.”

Nobody spoke.

“I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer,” Lawrence Newt gravely said.

“Don’t you be troubled about little Grace Plumer.  She can take proper care of herself,” answered Arthur, merrily.

Hope Wayne’s busy fingers did not stop.  She remembered Miss Grace Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Merlin.  Hope did not know Grace; but she knew the voice, the manner, the magnetism to which the gay girl was exposed,

“If Mr. Godefroi Plumer is really as rich as I hear,” said Lawrence, “I think we shall have a Mrs. Abel Newt in the autumn.  Poor Mrs. Abel Newt!”