Fanny Newt smiled icily.
“As you please,” said she.
Poor Zephyr was bewildered.
“It is very confusing, somehow, Miss Newt, isn’t it?” said he, wiping his face.
“Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps.”
“Yes, yes; oh, indeed, yes. A man had better look out, or—”
“Or he’ll catch a Tartar!” said a clear, strange voice.
Fanny Newt and Wetherley turned simultaneously toward the speaker. It was a young man, with clustering black hair and sparkling eyes, in a traveling dress. He stood in the back room, which he had entered through the conservatory.
“Abel!” said his sister, running toward him, and pulling him forward.
“Mr. Wetherley, this is my brother, Mr. Abel Newt.”