“And ruin Fanny’s prospects?” said Aimée, who felt that the situation was critical, and that something must be done at once to restrain the impetuosity of this young man. It was characteristic of her that the first idea which occurred to her was of an appeal to his generosity. “You can do that,” she went on, fixing him with her dark, earnest eyes, “but it will seem like a revenge--and a very mean one. You will injure Fanny, you will make a scandal that will almost kill my aunt, and you will do me no good--for nobody knows anything now except Mr. Meredith, and he cares nothing about me. But if you go to him, everybody will soon know something, though not the truth.” Lennox did not answer immediately. He simply stared at her, so much was he struck by her decision and good sense. It was true what she said. By interfering he could do no good, and it would certainly look like a revenge--“and a very mean one.” Aimée had instinctively struck the right key. While a man of different nature might have stretched out eager hands for any form of revenge, this man drew back from the chance put into his hand as if from a viper. “You are right,” he said, after a moment. “I should place myself in a false position by interfering, and perhaps do more harm than good. But, all the same, it is a shame that the truth should not be known, and a greater shame that your cousin should trade upon your generosity. However, you will say that is no affair of mine. It is true. And since I can do no good to any one except by going away, I will go without loss of time. Only one thing more: besides my message, will you deliver this into your cousin’s hand? I have no longer the right to retain it--nor the inclination.” He drew from his pocket as he spoke, and gave to her, a small golden locket which contained, Aimée afterward discovered, a picture of Fanny and a curl of her sunny hair. As she received it, a voice suddenly sounded in the hall which brought dismay to her soul, for it was the voice of Mrs. Shreve, and this is what Mrs. Shreve was saying: “Come in, if you please, sir. I will send and let Mrs. Berrien and Miss Vincent know that you are here.” “Miss Vincent!” said Aimée, in a frightened whisper. “That is _me_--and nobody ever comes to see me! Who can it be?” Meanwhile Mrs. Shreve’s voice went on amiably: “You wish to see them in private? Then step into my sitting-room, where you will be altogether private, and--Oh! _Miss Aimée!_” It was a tableau for a moment--the open door in which stood Mrs. Shreve, bonneted and shawled; Aimée a picture of confusion, with the locket in her hand; and Lennox Kyrle, tall, straight, and handsome, standing before her. The scene, to all appearances, told a story evident to the dullest comprehension; and it was not alone to Mrs. Shreve’s eyes that it was revealed. Behind her was a young man whose glance over her shoulder took it all in.