But Abel, who saw as much in his way as Mrs. Dagon in hers, although without the glasses, had carefully kept in the other part of the rooms. He had planted his batteries before Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut, having resolved to taste her, as Herbert Octoyne had advised, notwithstanding that she had no flavor, as Abel himself had averred.
But who eats merely for the flavor of the food?
That lady clicked smoothly as Abel, metaphorically speaking, touched her. Louis Wilkottle, her cavalier, slipped away from her he could not tell how: he merely knew that Abel Newt was in attendance, vice Wilkottle, disappeared. So Wilkottle floated about the rooms upon limp pinions for sometime, wondering where to settle, and brushed Fanny Newt in flying.
“Oh! Mr. Wilkottle, you are just the man. Mr. Whitloe, Laura Magot, and I were just talking about Batrachian reptiles. Which are the best toads, the fattest?”
“Or does it depend upon the dressing?” asked Mr. Whitloe.
“Or the quantity of jewelry in the head?” said Laura Magot.
Mr. Wilkottle smiled, bowed, and passed on.
If they had called him an ass—as they were ladies of the best position—he would have bowed, smiled, and passed on.
“An amiable fellow,” said Fanny, as he disappeared; “but quite a remarkable fool.”
Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, still struggling with the hand problem, approached Miss Fanny, and remarked that it was very warm.