“He might have done very well,” she said, “but then, you see, he is impracticable, and that is what would make it such madness to marry him. His uncle told him frankly that he had not the faintest intention of leaving him a fortune, but that he would give him an opportunity to make one for himself. ‘I’ll give you a better start in life than _I_ had,’ he said, ‘and if you don’t take advantage of it, that will be your fault.’ So he offered him a place in his business house, which, of course, meant the entire control and reversion of the business; and would you believe that Lennox declined the offer?” “Why?” inquired Aimée, wisely refraining from any expression of opinion. “Because he has no liking for commercial life--as if that had anything to do with it! He tried it for a while, then gave it up, saying he could not waste the best years of his life in work that he disliked. So he has gone into literature, and is connected with a newspaper. Conceive the difference! And fancy _me_ dragging through life as the wife of a ‘special correspondent’!” “But he may be a famous author some day,” said Aimée, with brightening eyes. “He may--and again he may not,” responded Fanny, dryly. “And even if he were a famous author, it does not follow that he would be anything save a poor man. Now, I was not made to be the wife of a poor man; any one can see that.” “I--suppose not,” said Aimée, slowly. These were mercenary ideas to be introduced into the world of her young dreams of romance; but she took them in as she had already taken in the facts of faithlessness and heartlessness, and no doubt assimilated them, by some mental process, to such knowledge of human nature and human life as she already possessed. “But now I think we have talked enough,” said Fanny. “If you are not ready to go to sleep, I am. I feel so light and comfortable to think that I have safely disposed of the Lennox difficulty! It has been a dreadful weight on my mind ever since I received his letter saying that he was coming. I was at my wits’ end. I did not know what to do until I thought of taking you into my confidence. You have been a perfect jewel, Aimée. I shall never forget the service you have done me, and if ever I have a chance to repay it in kind, I will.” Aimée laughed. She had not a keen sense of humor, but it occurred to her that Fanny was about as likely to do for another what had been done for her this night, as she--Aimée--was likely to elope. “I am sure that you will never be called upon to repay it in kind,” she said. “I can not imagine myself promising to elope; but if I did promise, _I would go_!” “I dare say,” replied Fanny. “You are romantic, and you would enjoy--or you think you would enjoy--dangers and difficulties. But as for me, I like the comforts of life.”