“Say, Fan!”
Ellen Dix caught at her friend’s arm, her pretty face, with its full pouting lips and brilliant dark eyes upturned.
“Well?”
“Do you suppose— You don’t think Jim is mad at me for what I said about her, do you?”
“I don’t remember you said anything to make anybody mad. Come, let’s go down, Ellen.”
“But, Fan, I was wondering if that girl— Do you know I—I kind of wish she hadn’t come to Brookville. Everything seems—different, already. Don’t you think so, Fanny?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why should you think about it? She’s here and there’s no use. I’m going down, Ellen.”
Fanny moved toward the stairs, her fresh young beauty heightened by an air of dignified reserve which Ellen Dix had failed to penetrate.
Wesley Elliot, who had by now reached the wide opening into the hall in the course of his progress among the guests, glanced up as Fanny Dodge swept the last step of the stair with her unfashionable white gown.
“Why, good evening, Miss Dodge,” he exclaimed, with commendable presence of mind, seeing the heart under his waistcoat had executed an uncomfortable pas seul at sight of her.