Now, all this while Miss Fanny was mistaken in one point, for Mr. George Somers, though an exceedingly fine gentleman, had, after all, quite a substratum of reality about him, of real heart, real feeling, and real opinion of his own; and the consequence was, that when tired of the effort of conversing he really longed to find somebody to talk to; and in this mood he one evening strolled into the library, leaving the gay party in the drawing room to themselves. Miss Fanny was there, quite intent upon a book of selections from the old English poets.
"Really, Miss Fanny," said Mr. Somers, "you are very sparing of the favor of your company to us this evening."
"O, I presume my company is not much missed," said Fanny, with a smile.
"You must have a poor opinion of our taste, then," said Mr. Somers.
"Come, come, Mr. Somers," replied Fanny, "you forget the person you are talking to; it is not at all necessary for you to compliment me; nobody ever does—so you may feel relieved of that trouble."
"Nobody ever does, Miss Fanny; pray, how is that?"
"Because I'm not the sort of person to say such things to."
"And pray, what sort of person ought one to be, in order to have such things said?" replied Mr. Somers.
"Why, like Sister Isabella, or like Emma. You understand I am a sort of little nobody; if any one wastes fine words on me, I never know what to make of them."
"And pray, what must one say to you?" said Mr. Somers, quite amused.