Wharne had read, in his
behalf, as well.
"He's a queer old fellow, that Mr. Wharne, isn't he?" pursued Master
Thayne, after forward and back, as he turned his partner to place. "But
he's the only one that's had anything to say to me, and I like him.
I've been down to the old mill with him to-day. Those people"--motioning
slightly toward the other set, where the Thoresbys were dancing--"were
down there, too. You'd ought to have seen them look! Don't they hate
him, though?"
"Hate him? Why should they do that?"
"Oh, I don't know. People feel each other out, I suppose. And a word of
his is as much as a whole preach of anybody's else. He says a word now
and then, and it hits."
"Yes," responded Leslie, laughing.
"What _did_ you do it for?" whispered Elinor, in hands across.
"I like him; he's got something to say," returned Leslie.
"Augusta's looking at you, like a hen after a stray chicken. She's all
but clucking now."
"Mr. Wharne will tell her."
But Mr. Wharne was not in the room. He came back just as Leslie was
making her way again, after the dance, to Mrs.
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