“But it does make a difference,” said Fanny, once more with a sigh. “If he were ever so nice, it could be _no good_. Mr. Brownlow may be very kind to him, but he would never let you marry him, Sara. Yes, of course, that is what it must come to. A girl should not stray about in the park with a man unless he was a man that she could marry if he asked her. I don’t mean to say that she _would_ marry, but at least that she could. And, besides, a girl owes a duty to herself even if her father would consent. You, in your position, ought to make a very different match.” “You little worldly-minded wretch,” cried Sara, “have you nearly done?” “Any body would tell you so as well as me,” said Fanny. “You might have had that big Sir Charles if you had liked. Papa is only a poor clergyman, and we have not the place in society we might have; but you can go everywhere, you who are so rich. And then the gentlemen always like you. If you were to make a poor marriage it would be a shame.” “When did you learn all that?” said Fanny’s hearer, aghast. “I never thought you were half so wise.” “I always knew it, dear,” said little Fanny, with complacency. “I used to be too frightened to speak, and then you always talked so much quicker and went on so. But when I was at my aunt’s in spring--” “I shall always hate your aunt;” cried Sara--“I did before by instinct: did she put it all into your head about matches and things? You were ten thousand times better when you had only me. As if I would marry a man because he would be a good marriage! I wonder what you take me for, that you speak so to me!” “Then what should you marry him for!” said little Fanny, with a toss of her pretty head. “For!” cried Sara, “not for any thing! for nothing at all! I hate marrying. To think a girl can not live in this world without having _that_ thrust into her face! What should I marry any body for? But I shall do what I like, and walk when I like, and talk to any body that pleases me,” cried the impetuous young woman. Her vehemence brought a flush to her face and something like tears into her eyes; and Fanny, for her part, looked on very gravely at an appearance of feeling of which she entirely disapproved. “I dare say you will take your own way,” she said--“you always did take your own way; but at least you can’t say I did not warn you; and I hope you will never be sorry for not having listened to me, Sara. I love you all the same,” said Fanny, giving her friend a soft little kiss. Sara did not return this salutation with the warmth it deserved. She was flushed and angry and impatient, and yet disposed to laugh. “You don’t hope any thing of the sort,” she said; “you hope I shall live to be very sorry--and I hate your aunt.” This was how the warning ended in the drawing-room. It was more elegantly expressed than it had been by Mrs. Swayne and old Betty; but yet the burden of the prophecy was in some respects the same.