ech which he meant to make upon occasion of his presentation as
foreign minister somewhere; while his beloved partner lay by his side,
and resolved that Alfred Dinks must immediately secure Hope Wayne before
Fanny Newt secured Alfred Dinks.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE FINE ARTS.

The whole world of Saratoga congratulated Mrs. Dinks upon her beautiful
niece, Miss Wayne. Even old Mrs. Dagon said to every body:

"How lovely she is! And to think she comes from Boston! Where did she get
her style? Fanny dear, I saw you hugging--I beg your pardon, I mean
waltzing with Mr. Dinks."

But when Hope Wayne danced there seemed to be nobody else moving. She
filled the hall with grace, and the heart of the spectator with an
indefinable longing. She carried strings of bouquets. She made men happy
by asking them to hold some of her flowers while she danced; and then,
when she returned to take them, the gentlemen were steeped in such a
gush of sunny smiling that they stood bowing and grinning--even the
wisest--but felt as if the soft gush pushed them back a little; for the
beauty which, allured them defended her like a fiery halo.

It was understood that she was engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks, her cousin,
who was already, or was to be, very rich. But there was apparently
nothing very marked in his devotion.

"It is so much better taste for young people who are engaged not to make
love in public," said Mrs. Dinks, as she sat in grand conclave of mammas
and elderly ladies, who all understood her to mean her son and niece, and
entirely agreed with her.

Meanwhile all the gentlemen who could find one of her moments disengaged
were walking, bowling, driving, riding, chatting, sitting, with Miss
Wayne. She smiled upon all, and sat apart in her smiling. Some foolish
young fellows tried to flirt with her. When they had fully developed
their intentions she smiled full in their faces, not insultingly nor
familiarly, but with a soft superiority. The foolish young fellows went
down to light their cigars and drink their brandy and water, feeling as
if their faces had been rubbed upon an iceberg, for not less lofty and
pure were their thoughts of her, and not less burning was their sense of
her superb scorn.

But Arthur Merlin, the painter, who had come to pass a few days at
Saratoga on his way to Lake George, and whose few days had expanded into
the few weeks that Miss Wayne had been there--Arthur Merlin, the painter,
whose eyes were accustom