Fanny laughed. “Yes, if you like—worst of my aunts! In any event, I mean to marry Stacy Calverleigh, whatever my uncle may say or do!”

Well aware that few things were more invigorating to high-spirited adolescents than opposition, Abby replied instantly: “Oh, certainly! But your father, you know, was an excellent dragsman, and he was used to say that you should always get over heavy ground as light as possible. I am strongly of the opinion that you—and Mr Calverleigh—should refrain from declaring your intentions to your uncle until you can also present him with proof of the durability of your attachment.”

“He wouldn’t care: you must know he wouldn’t! And if you mean to say that I must wait until I come of age—oh, no, you couldn’t be so heartless! Four whole years—! When you have met Stacy, you will understand!”

“I shall be delighted to meet him, and wish it may be soon.”

“Oh, and so do I!” Fanny said eagerly. “You can’t think how much I miss him! You see, he was obliged to go to London, but he said it would only be for a few days, so he may be in Bath again by the end of the week. Or, at any rate, next week: that you may depend on!”

This was said with a radiant look, and was followed by a shyly ecstatic account of Fanny’s first meeting with Mr Calverleigh, and a description of his manifold charms. Abby listened and commented suitably, but seized the first opportunity that offered of turning Fanny’s thoughts into another channel. She directed her attention to the pile of dress-lengths she had procured in London, and bade her say if she liked them. This answered very well; and in going into raptures over a spider-gauze, wondering whether to have a celestial-blue crape trimmed with ribbon or puff-muslin, and arguing with Abby over the respective merits of Circassian or Cottage sleeves for a morning-dress, Fanny temporarily forgot Mr Calverleigh, and went off to bed presently, to dream (Abby hoped) of fashions.