“I dare say it is.  But I didn’t think of that.  I was only going to tell you how the gentlemen of our Table Rock party tried to hire the use of the bridge one night to dance on.  The owners wouldn’t let it.  Mean, weren’t they?”

“Contemptible!” replied Chiffield.

“We should have had it nicely swept and lighted.  The breeze coming down the river would have been beautiful, and the awful noise of the Falls wouldn’t have been too loud for the music.  But we almost made up for our disappointment.  Next night, the gentlemen hired the ’Maid of the Mist’—­the little steamboat, you know, that you see in this picture—­and we sailed round and round below the Falls all night, dancing all the time.  We went so near the Falls twice, that I got quite wet with the nasty spray, and caught cold; but that didn’t prevent me from dancing all the next night, at the International.  You have a good view of the house in this picture.”

“Tasty,” said Chiffield.

Mr. Whedell and Maltboy had not lost a word of this conversation, though they had been mutually boring each other with complex sentences about national politics.  Happily, the discussion required no mental effort, and left them both free to hear and make mental comments on the dialogue that buzzed across the way.

Mr. Whedell regretted that his daughter should expatiate with such vivacity upon a subject that must be extremely disagreeable to a gentleman of Mr. Chiffield’s large figure and steady habits.  To the cultivated judgment of Maltboy, it was evident that the young lady was trying to amuse Chiffield merely for the purpose of annoying him (Maltboy).  Experience had taught Matthew the best kind of cure for this species of female perversity.  He determined to leave the house, and thereby show that he was not to be trifled with.

Availing himself of a pause in the dissertations on national politics, Maltboy pulled out his watch and consulted it.  “Why!” said he; “nine o’clock!  And I was to be in Fourteenth street by half past eight.  Only intended to drop in just to see how you were.  You really must excuse me, Mr. Whedell.”  Matthew rose as he spoke, to show that his mind was made up, and remonstrances would be useless.

“Don’t go.  Put off your other call,” ejaculated Mr.  “Whedell, at the same time rising, and thereby indicating a perfect acquiescence in the departure of his guest.

“You are in a hurry,” said Miss Whedell, calmly, but without objection in voice or eye.

Mr. Chiffield looked calmly at his rival; and none but a skilled student of physiognomy could have discovered a gleam of triumph in his dull, yellow face.

Maltboy was disappointed in the calm demeanor of Miss Whedell; but, strong in his purpose, he walked toward the door, followed by the father.  As he passed into the entry, he bowed coldly to the lady of his heart, and drew from her a scarcely perceptible nod.

At this moment, a valuable thought occurred to the paternal Whedell.