“Oh, Miss Newt,” interrupted Zephyr, “how can you say such things?  Hear me but one word.  I assure you that I most deeply, tenderly, truly—­”

“Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny, putting down the book and speaking very firmly, “I really can not sit still and hear you proceed.  You are laboring under a great misapprehension.  You must be aware that I have never in the slightest way given you occasion to believe that I—­”

“I must speak!” burst in the impetuous Zephyr.  “My feelings forbid silence!  Great Heavens!  Miss Newt, you really have no idea—­I am sure you have no idea—­you can not have any idea of the ardor with which for a long, long time I have—­”

“Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny Newt, darker and cooler than ever, “it is useless to prolong this conversation.  I can not consent to hear you declare that—­”

“But you haven’t heard me declare it,” replied Zephyr, vehemently.  “It’s the very thing I am trying to do, and you won’t let me.  You keep cutting me off just as I am saying how I—­”

“You need go no further, Sir,” said Miss Newt, coldly, rising and standing by the table; while Zephyr Wetherley, red and hot and confused, crushed his handkerchief into a ball, and swept his hand through his hair, wagging his foot, and rubbing his fingers together.  “I understand, Sir, what you wish to say, and I desire to tell you only—­”

“Just what I don’t want to hear!  Oh dear me!  Please, please, Miss Newt!” entreated Zephyr Wetherley.

“Mr. Wetherley,” interrupted the other, imperiously, “you wish to ask me to marry you.  I desire to spare you the pain of my answer to that question by preventing your asking it.”

Mr. Wetherley was confounded.  He wrinkled his brows doubtfully a moment—­he stared at the floor and at Miss Newt—­he looked foolish and mortified.  “But—­but—­but—­” stammered he.  “Well—­but—­why—­but—­haven’t you somehow answered the question?” inquired he, with gleams of doubtful intelligence shooting across his face.

Fanny Newt smiled icily.

“As you please,” said she.

Poor Zephyr was bewildered.

“It is very confusing, somehow, Miss Newt, isn’t it?” said he, wiping his face.

“Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps.”

“Yes, yes; oh, indeed, yes.  A man had better look out, or—­”

“Or he’ll catch a Tartar!” said a clear, strange voice.

Fanny Newt and Wetherley turned simultaneously toward the speaker.  It was a young man, with clustering black hair and sparkling eyes, in a traveling dress.  He stood in the back room, which he had entered through the conservatory.

“Abel!” said his sister, running toward him, and pulling him forward.

“Mr. Wetherley, this is my brother, Mr. Abel Newt.”

The young men bowed.

“Oh, indeed!” said Zephyr.  “How’d he come here listening?”

“Chance, chance, Mr. Wetherley.  I have just returned from school.  Pretty tough old school-boy, hey?  Well, it’s all the grandpa’s doing.  Grandpas are extraordinary beings, Mr. Wetherley.  Now there was—­”