“What is it?” said Abel to himself, with a flash of the black eyes that was startling.
All the evening he felt particularly belligerent toward Sligo Moultrie; and yet a close observer would have discovered no occasion in the conduct of the young man for such a feeling upon Abel’s part. Mr. Moultrie sat quietly by the side of Grace Plumer—“as if somehow he had a right to sit there,” thought Abel Newt, who resolved to discover if indeed he had a right.
During that visit, however, he had no chance. Moultrie sat persistently, and so did Abel. The clock pointed to eleven, and still they did not move. It was fairly toward midnight when Abel rose to leave, and at the same moment Sligo Moultrie rose also. Abel bade the ladies good-evening, and passed out as if Moultrie were close by him. But that young man remained standing by the sofa upon which Grace Plumer was seated, and said quietly to Abel,
“Good-evening, Newt!”
Grace Plumer looked at him also, with the bright black eyes, and blushed.
For a moment Abel Newt’s heart seemed to stand still! An expression of some bitterness must have swept over his face, for Mrs. Plumer stepped toward him, as he stood with his hand upon the door, and said,
“Are you unwell?”
The cloud dissolved in a forced smile.
“No, thank you; not at all!” and he looked surprised, as if he could not imagine why any one should think so.
He did not wait longer, and the next moment was in the street.