“I am glad to see Miss Wayne with you to-night,” said Fanny.
“My niece is her own mistress,” replied Mrs. Dinks, in a sub-acid tone.
Fanny’s eyes grew blacker and sharper in a moment. An Indian whose life depends upon concealment from his pursuer is not more sensitive to the softest dropping of the lightest leaf than was Fanny Newt’s sagacity to the slightest indication of discovery of her secret. There is trouble, she said to herself, as she heard Mrs. Dinks’s reply.
“Miss Wayne has been a recluse this winter,” remarked Fanny, with infinite blandness.
“Yes, she has had some kind of whim,” replied Mrs. Dinks, shaking her shoulders as if to settle her dress.
“We girls have all suspected, you know, of course, Mrs. Dinks,” said Miss Newt, with a very successful imitation of archness and a little bend of the neck.
“Have you, indeed!” retorted Mrs. Dinks, in almost a bellicose manner.
“Why, yes, dear Mrs. Dinks; don’t you remember at Saratoga—you know?” continued Fanny, with imperturbable composure.
“What happened at Saratoga?” asked Mrs. Dinks, with smooth defiance on her face, and conscious that she had never actually mentioned any engagement between Alfred and Hope.
“Dear me! So many things happen at Saratoga,” answered Fanny, bridling like a pert miss of seventeen. “And when a girl has a handsome cousin, it’s very dangerous.” Fanny Newt was determined to know where she was.