Abby had not expected such an open avowal, and could think of nothing to say but that it sounded like a fairy-tale, which was not at all what she ought to have said, as she realized an instant later.

Raising glowing eyes to her face, Fanny said simply: “Yes, it is just like that! Oh, I knew you would understand, dearest! Even though you haven’t yet met him! And when you do meet him—oh, you will dote on him! I only wish you may not cut me out!”

Abby accorded this sally the tribute of a smile, but recommended her ecstatic niece not to be a pea-goose.

“Oh, I was only funning!” Fanny assured her. “The thing is that he isn’t a silly boy, like Jack Weaverham, or Charlie Ruscombe, or—or Peter Trevisian, but a man of the world, and much older than I am, which makes it so particularly gratifying—no, I don’t mean that!—so wonderful that in spite of having been on the town, as they say, for years and years he never met anyone with whom he wished to form a lasting connection until he came to Bath, and met me!” Overcome by this reflection, she buried her face in Abby’s lap, saying, in muffled accents: “And he must have met much prettier girls than I am—don’t you think?”

Miss Wendover, aware that her besetting sin was a tendency to give utterance to the first thought which sprang to her mind, swallowed an impulse to retort: “But few so well-endowed!” and replied instead: “Well, as I’m not acquainted with any of the latest beauties I can’t say! But to have made a London beau your first victim is certainly a triumph. Of course I know I shouldn’t say that to you—your Aunt Cornelia would call it administering to your vanity!—so pray don’t expose me to her censure by growing puffed-up, my darling!”

Fanny looked up. “Ah, you don’t understand!