Mr. Abel did not happen to suggest to his father that, for the purpose of marrying an heiress, if he should ever chance to be so fortunate as to meet one, and, having met her, to become enamored so that he might be justified in wooing her for his wife—­that for all these contingencies it was a good thing for a young man to have a regular business connection and apparent employment—­and very advantageous, indeed, that that connection should be with a man so well known in commercial and fashionable circles as his father.  That of itself was one of the great advantages of credit.  It was a frequent joke of Abel’s with his father, after the recent conversation, that credit was the most creditable thing going.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHECK.

During these brilliant days of young bachelorhood Abel, by some curious chance, had not met Hope Wayne, who was passing the winter in New York with her Aunt Dinks, and who had hitherto declined all society.  It was well known that she was in town.  The beautiful Boston heiress was often enough the theme of discourse among the youth at Abel’s rooms.

“Is she really going to marry that Dinks?  Why, the man’s a donkey!” said Corlaer Van Boozenberg.

“And are there no donkeys among your married friends?” inquired Abel, with the air of a naturalist pursuing his researches.

One day, indeed, as he was passing Stewart’s, he saw Hope alighting from a carriage.  He was not alone; and as he passed their eyes met.  He bowed profoundly.  She bent her head without speaking, as one acknowledges a slight acquaintance.  It was not a “cut,” as Abel said to himself; “not at all.  It was simply ranking me with the herd.”

“Who’s that stopping to speak with her?” asked Corlaer, as he turned back to see her.

“That’s Arthur Merlin.  Don’t you know?  He’s a painter.  I wonder how the deuce he came to know her!”

In fact, it was the painter.  It was the first time he had met her since the summer days of Saratoga; and as he stood talking with her upon the sidewalk, and observed that her cheeks had an unusual flush, and her manner a slight excitement, he could not help feeling a secret pleasure—­feeling, in truth, so deep a delight, as he looked into that lovely face, that he found himself reflecting, as he walked away, how very fortunate it was that he was so entirely devoted to his art.  It is very fortunate indeed, thought he.  And yet it might be a pity, too, if I should chance to meet some beautiful and sympathetic woman; because, being so utterly in love with my art, it would be impossible for me to fall in love with her!  Quite impossible!  Quite out of the question!

Just as he thought this he bumped against some one, and looked up suddenly.  A calm, half-amused face met his glance, as Arthur said, hastily, “I beg your pardon.”

“My pardon is granted,” returned the gentleman; “but still you had better look out for yourself.”