And Fanny, in the mean time, was delivering her little lecture to Sara. They had been dining at Brownlows, and there were no other guests, and the two girls were alone in the drawing-room, in that little half-hour which the gentlemen spent over their temperate glass of claret. It is an hour much bemoaned by fast young women, but, as the silent majority are aware, it is not an unpleasant hour. Fanny Hardcastle and Sara Brownlow were great friends in their way. They were in the habit of seeing each other continually, of going to the same places, of meeting the same people. It was not exactly a friendship of natural affinity, but rather of proximity, which answers very well in many cases. Probably Fanny, for her part, was not capable of any thing more enthusiastic. They told each other every thing--that is, they each told the other as much as that other could understand. Fanny, by instinct, refrained from putting before Sara all the prudences and sensible restrictions that existed in her own thoughts; and Sara, equally by instinct, was dumb about her own personal feelings and fancies, except now and then when carried away by their vehemence. “She would not understand me, you know,” both of them would have said. But to-night Fanny had taken upon herself the prophetic office. She, too, had her burden of warning to deliver, and to free her own soul from all responsibility in her neighbor’s fate. “Sara,” she said, “I saw you the other day when you did not see me. You were in the park--down there, look, under that tree; and _that_ Mr. Powys was with you. You know I once saw him here.” “I do not call that the park--I call that the avenue,” said Sara; but she saw that her companion spoke with _intention_, and a certain quickening of color came to her face. “You may call it any thing you please, but I am sure it _is_ the park,” said Fanny, “and I want to speak to you about it. I am sure I don’t know who Mr. Powys is--I dare say he is very nice--but _do_ you think it is quite right walking about with him like that? You told me yourself he was in your papa’s office. You know Sara, dear, I wouldn’t say a word to you if it wasn’t for your good.” “What is for my good?” said Sara--“walking in the park? or having you to speak to me? As for Mr. Powys, I don’t suppose you know any thing about him, so of course you can’t have any thing to say.” “I wish you would not gallop on like that and take away one’s breath,” said Fanny. “Of course I don’t know any thing about him. He may be very nice--I am sure I can’t say; or he may be very amusing--they often are,” Fanny added, with a sigh, “when they are no good. But don’t go walking and talking with him, Sara; don’t, there’s a dear; people will talk; you _know_ how they talk. And if he is only in your papa’s office--” “I don’t see what difference that can possibly make,” said Sara with a little vehemence.