Mrs. Newt’s party was select.  Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and the Magots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, a lovely woman from Georgia, and her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, with fair hair and eyes; Dr. and Mrs. Lush, Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Maundy, who came only upon the express understanding that there was to be no dancing, and a few other agreeable people.  It was a Summer party, Abel said—­mere low-necked muslin, strawberries and ice-cream.

The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered the dark, rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups with the grace and ease of an accomplished man of society, smiling brightly upon his friends, bowing gravely to those of his mother’s guests whom he did not personally know.

“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feuille’s finest successes, from a foreign tour.

“That is my brother Abel,” replied Miss Fanny.

“Your brother Abel? how charming!  How very like he is to Viscount Tattersalls.  You’ve not been in England, I believe, Miss Newt?”

Fanny bowed negatively.

“Ah! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls.  He is a very superior young man.  We were very intimate with him indeed.  Dolly, dear!”

“Yes, ma.”

“You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tattersalls?”

“Was he a bishop?” asked Miss Fanny Newt.

“Law! no, my dear.  He was a—­he was a—­why, he was a Viscount, you know—­a Viscount.”

“Oh! a Viscount?”

“Yes, a Viscount.”

“Ah! a Viscount.”

“Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles Lord Tattersalls?”

“Yes, ma.”

“It’s very striking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of Crockford. 
Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, ma?”

“Very like indeed.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Dolly, dear, don’t you think his nose is like the Duke of Wellington’s? 
You remember the Wellington nose, my child?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Or is it Lord Brougham’s that I mean?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Yes, dear.”

“May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tally?” asked Fanny Newt.

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Miss Tully.

Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room, out of which opened the conservatory.

“Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
   And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: 
I said there was naething I hated like men—­
   The deuce gae wi’m to believe’me, believe me,
   The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.”

The rooms were hushed as the merry song rang out.  The voice of the singer was arch, and her eye flashed slyly on Abel Newt as she finished, and a murmur of pleasure rose around her.

Abel leaned upon the piano, with his eyes fixed upon the singer.  He was fully conscious of the surprise he had betrayed to sister Fanny when she spoke suddenly of Mrs. Alfred Dinks.  It was necessary to remove any suspicion that she might entertain in consequence.  If Mr. Abel Newt had intentions in which Miss Hope Wayne was interested, was there any reason why Miss Fanny Newt should mingle in the matter?