"It is altogether too coarse," said Fanny, with pretended pettishness. "But, there!—whoever gets me will have to make the best of it."
"Whoever gets you, Fanny, will have the dearest little wife in the world, and if he doesn't love every hair in your head he will be the most ungrateful of men—and I shall tell him so."
"I wonder who he will be," said Fanny, "and whether he knows that I've been growing up for him?"
It was quite a natural remark for a light-hearted, innocent girl to make. Why, therefore, should it cause both the cousins to fall straightway into the mood ruminative—a mood which entails silence while it lasts.
"One thing I am determined upon," said Fanny, waking up, as it were; "I won't have him unless he can waltz."
"If he can't," said Phœbe, with an arch smile, "you can teach him."
"Well, yes; that would be nice." And Fanny, brush in hand, commenced to hum a favourite waltz, and took a few turns to it, saying, when she was again before the glass, "What were we speaking of, Phœbe, before my young man popped in?"
"About the play."
"We are all going on the first night—think of that! And in a private box—think of that! The observed of all observers, as Mr. Kiss would say. I shall feel so excited—almost as if I were the author—though such a thing is impossible."
"Why impossible, Fanny? You wrote a story when you were nine years old."