"It is altogether too coarse," said Fanny, with pretended pettishness. "But, there!--whoever gets me will have to make the best of it." "Whoever gets you, Fanny, will have the dearest little wife in the world, and if he doesn't love every hair in your head he will be the most ungrateful of men--and I shall tell him so." "I wonder who he will be," said Fanny, "and whether he knows that I've been growing up for him?" It was quite a natural remark for a light-hearted, innocent girl to make. Why, therefore, should it cause both the cousins to fall straightway into the mood ruminative--a mood which entails silence while it lasts. "One thing I am determined upon," said Fanny, waking up, as it were; "I won't have him unless he can waltz." "If he can't," said Phoebe, with an arch smile, "you can teach him." "Well, yes; that _would_ be nice." And Fanny, brush in hand, commenced to hum a favourite waltz, and took a few turns to it, saying, when she was again before the glass, "What were we speaking of, Phoebe, before my young man popped in?" "About the play." "We are all going on the first night--think of that! And in a private box--think of _that_! The observed of all observers, as Mr. Kiss would say. I shall feel so excited--almost as if I were the author--though such a thing is impossible." "Why impossible, Fanny? You wrote a story when you were nine years old." "Yes, and it commenced, "They were born in India without any father or mother." Was there anything ever so absurd?" "The success of Mr. Linton's play will mean a great deal to him. He is not rich, I am afraid." "If he isn't he ought to be," said Fanny, brushing with great care the tresses she pretended to despise; "wearing his brains out in the way he does. He _did_ look anxious, didn't he, while Mr. Kiss was reading it? And how beautifully he read! I felt like kissing him when he was going through the love scenes. They _do_ kiss a good deal on the stage, don't they?" "Yes," said Phoebe, speaking with difficulty, her mouth being full of hair-pins; "but then they don't mean it." Fanny made a face. "I shouldn't care for it that way," she said, and then she laughed, as though she had said something funny. "Do you think Bob meant it," asked Phoebe, "when he said he was going to be an actor?" "Bob's a riddle," replied Fanny. "I give him up." "He might do worse. It's quite a fashionable profession." "It isn't a profession. Didn't Mr. Kiss tell us that an actor was a rogue and vagabond by Act of Parliament." "That was only a joke. Mr. Kiss is a gentleman." "Of course he is. The Prince of Wales once shook hands with him, and _he_ wouldn't shake hands with any one _but_ a gentleman. Do you wish you were a man, Phoebe?" "No."