“Fanny dear,” said her mother, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dagon, who departed speechless and in what may be called a simmering state of mind, “Abel will be here in a day or two.  I really hope to hear something about this Miss Wayne.  Do you suppose Alfred Dinks is actually engaged to her?”

“How should I know, mother?”

“Why, my dear, you have been so intimate with him.”

“My dear mother, how can any body be intimate with Alfred Dinks?  You might as well talk of breathing in a vacuum.”

“But, Fanny, he is a very good sort of young man—­so respectable, and with such good manners, and he has a very pretty fortune—­”

Mrs. Newt was interrupted by the servant, who announced Mr. Wetherley.

Poor Mr. Zephyr Wetherley!  He was one of the rank and file of society—­one of the privates, so to speak, who are mentioned in a mass after a ball, as common soldiers are mentioned after a battle.  He entered the room and bowed.  Mrs. Newt seeing that it was one of her daughter’s visitors, left the room.  Miss Fanny sat looking at the young man with her black eyes so calmly that she seemed to him to be sitting a great way off in a cool darkness.  Miss Fanny was not fond of Mr. Wetherley, although she had seen plainly enough the indications of his feeling for her.  This morning he was well gloved and booted.  His costume was unexceptionable.  Society of that day boasted few better-dressed men than Zephyr Wetherley.  His judgment in a case of cravat was unerring.  He had been in Europe, and was quoted when waistcoats were in debate.  He had been very attentive to Mr. Alfred Dinks and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, the two Boston youths who had been charming society during the season that was now over.  He was even a little jealous of Mr. Dinks.

After Mrs. Newt had left the room Mr. Wetherley fell into confusion.  He immediately embarked, of course, upon the weather; while Fanny, taking up a book, looked casually into it with a slight air of ennui.

“Have you read this?” said she to Mr. Wetherley.

“No, I suppose not; eh! what is it?” replied Zephyr, who was not a reading man.

“It is John Meal’s ‘Rachel Dyer.’”

“Oh, indeed!  No, indeed.  I have not read it!”

“What have you read, Mr. Wetherley?” inquired Fanny, glancing through the book which she held in her hand.

“Oh, indeed!—­” he began.  Then he seemed to undergo some internal spasm.  He dropped his hat, slid his chair to the side of Fanny’s, and said, “Ah, Miss Newt, how can you ask me at such a moment?”

Miss Fanny looked at him with a perfectly unruffled face.

“Why not at this moment, Mr. Wetherley?”

“Ah, Miss Newt, how can you when you know my feelings?  Did you not carry my bouquet at the theatre last evening?  Have you not long authorized me by your treatment to declare—­”

“Stop, Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny, calmly.  “The day is warm—­let us be cool.  Don’t say any thing which you will regret to remember.  Don’t mistake any thing that I have done as an indication of—­”