“Well, I thought so at the time,” Abby admitted. A smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. “I must own, however, that whenever that first suitor of mine is recalled to my mind I can only be thankful that your grandfather did repulse him! You know, Fanny, the melancholy truth is that one’s first love very rarely bears the least resemblance to one’s last, and most enduring love! He is the man one marries, and with whom one lives happily ever after!”

“But you have not married!” muttered Fanny rebelliously.

“Very true, but not because I carried a broken heart in my bosom! I have fallen in and out of love a dozen times, I daresay. And as for your Aunt Mary—! She, you know, was always accounted the Beauty of the family, and you might have reckoned her suitors by the score! The first of them was as unlike your Uncle George as any man could be.”

“I thought that my grandfather had arranged that marriage?” interpolated Fanny.

“Oh, no!” replied Abby. “He certainly approved of it, but George was only one of three eligible suitors! He was neither the most handsome nor the most dashing of them, and he bore not the smallest resemblance to any of your aunt’s first loves, but theirs is a very happy marriage, I promise you.”

“Yes, but I am not like my aunt,” returned Fanny. “I daresay she would have been as happy with any other amiable man, because she has a happy disposition, besides being very—very conformable!” She twinkled naughtily up at Abby. “Which I am not! My aunt is like a—oh, a deliriously soft cushion, which may be pushed and pummelled into any shape you choose!—but I—I know what I want, and have a great deal of resolution into the bargain!”

“More like a bolster, in fact,” agreed Abby, with an affability she was far from feeling.