“My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets. Miss Tully, I am sure, is charming. I would go with you with all my heart if I could,” said he, smiling and looking at Miss Plumer; “but, you see, all my heart is going here.”
Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming young man.
Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment and shook her head gently. Abel was sure she would happen to find herself in the conservatory presently, whither he and his companion slowly passed. It was prettily illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposely dim.
“How lovely it is here! Oh! how fond I am of flowers!” said Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such a little spring that Abel was obliged to hold her arm more closely.
“Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?”
“Yes; but I prefer them living.”
“Living flowers—what a poetic idea! But what do you mean?” asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head.
Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree, almost hidden in the shade. Dear Fanny! thought he.
“My dear Grace,” began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice; but the conservatory was so still that the words could have been easily heard by any one sitting upon the sofa.
Some one was sitting there—some one did hear. Abel smiled in his heart, and bent more closely to his companion. His manner was full of tender devotion. He and Grace came nearer. Some one not only heard, but started. Abel raised his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny’s. Somebody else started then; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne.