"Oh, Jim!" she breathed, "you've seen him!"
"Worse luck!" grumbled Jim.
He held his sister off at arm's length and gazed at her fixedly.
"What you see in that chap," he murmured. "Well--"
"Oh, Jim, he's wonderful!" cried Fanny, half laughing, half crying,
and altogether lovely.
"I suppose you think so. But after the way he's treated you-- By
George, Fan! I can't see--"
Fanny drew herself up proudly.
"Of course I haven't talked much about it, Jim," she said, with
dignity; "but Wesley and I had a--a little misunderstanding. It's all
explained away now."
And to this meager explanation she stubbornly adhered, through
subsequent soul-searching conversations with her mother, and during
the years of married life that followed. In time she came to believe
it, herself; and the "little misunderstanding with Wesley" and its
romantic denouement became a well-remembered milestone, wreathed with
sentiment.
But poised triumphant on this pinnacle of joy, she yet had time to
think of another than herself.
"Jim," said she, a touch of matronly authority already apparent in
her manner. "I've wanted for a long time to talk to you seriously
about Ellen."
Jim stared.
"About Ellen?" he repeated.
"Jim, she's awfully fond of you. I think you've treated her cruelly."
"Look here, Fan," said Jim, "don't you worry yourself about Ellen
Dix. She's not in love with me, and never was."
Having thus spoken, Jim would not say another word. He gulped down
his supper and was off.
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