“Oh!” said Fanny, with an inflection that was between a sigh and a moan.
“You should have seen them while he spoke of you,” said Esther. “Talk of flashes of lightning!—Dear child, it seemed so singular to us that a mite like you should inspire a grand passion in such a man. You are not angry with us, I know, but it was so indeed.”
“Why should I feel angry with you for feeling just what I do myself, only more intensely,” said Fanny. “Tis one of the greatest mysteries of life—the only mystery of life that I have yet faced—why a man who is as handsome as an archangel, and who possesses a voice that an archangel might envy, should so much as glance at an insignificant young woman like myself! Oh! 'tis no wonder that the notion amused you, dear Hetty.”
“It only diverted us for a time, I assure you, my Fanny; it did not take us very long to perceive how it was no laughing matter, but, on the contrary, a very serious matter. Signor Rauzzini is, as I said, an enchanter, but do you not think that 'tis somewhat dangerous to—to——”
“To play with fire? That is what is on your mind, dear—to allow the fire of his Roman eyes to play about me? Dangerous? I admit that wherever there is fire there is danger, especially when it flashes from such eyes.”
“I am glad that you need no warning, child. As your elder sister I am pleased that—that—but no one in the house seems to think for a moment that the favour he has so distinctly shown to you can mean anything. Indeed, until last night, neither Charles nor I could believe——”
Fanny laughed, half closing her short-sighted eyes with a curious expression as she looked at her sister.
“It is only natural, my dear Hettina,” she said.
“Have I ever ventured to suggest that I am other than the dunce of the family?”
“You have always been absurdly humble, Fanny, and I have never hesitated to say so,” cried Esther. “I am sure that none of us could have made up such clever little pieces to act as you did when we were children. And as for writing, could any of us have so neatly copied out the padre's History as you did last year? Mr. Crisp, too—he never takes pleasure in any letters of the family except what you write for him.”