“But why?” inquired Aimée, far too disturbed to be polite. “Why should you want to see me, and why--oh, _why_ haven’t you gone away? Fanny would be dreadfully worried if she knew you were still here.” “What Miss Berrien might think does not trouble me in the least,” he replied, quietly; “but I am sorry to annoy you. I really did not think, however, that merely seeing me would annoy you so much. Why should it? I have no intention of harming any one.” “Without intention you may do great harm,” she replied, quickly. “And I can not understand why you should stay, when you promised--” “I will tell you why,” he said as she paused. “But is there no place where we can sit down for a few minutes? I will not detain you long.” She pointed to a bench not far off, a favorite seat of her own, and one to which she had been on her way when he overtook her. “We can sit down there,” she said, with manifest reluctance, “but I do not see the necessity--” “Never mind seeing it,” he said. “Simply oblige me--if I must put the matter on that basis. I am sure you will admit that I have been badly enough treated to merit a little consideration.” “You have certainly been _very_ badly treated,” said Aimée, her eyes softening with sympathy at the memory of his wrongs. “I hope you don’t think I forget it, or that I can ever cease to blame Fanny; but--but making things worse can not make them better. And it seems to me that you can only make them worse by staying here.” “As far as Miss Berrien is concerned,” he said, as they walked toward the bench and seated themselves, “I assure you that I have not the least desire to make them either worse or better. It seems strange--does it not?”--he broke off abruptly, “that this time yesterday I was looking at the setting sun filled with thoughts of her, and longings for the moment that would bring us together, and that now there is not a woman whom I know in the world that I would not sooner entertain the thought of marrying. It is a great change to be wrought in twenty-four hours. And do you know what has chiefly wrought it?” “Her conduct, I suppose,” answered Aimée. “It was bad enough to have wrought anything; and yet,” she added, reflectively, “I don’t really believe that Fanny herself thinks it was very bad. She is--light, you know.” “Yes,” assented Kyrle, dryly, “very light. However, what she thinks is a matter of no importance. And it is not her conduct to me that has chiefly wrought the change of which I speak, but her conduct to _you_.” “To me?” said Aimée, looking up at him with a startled expression. “Oh, pray, don’t think of that. You don’t understand--Fanny never meant to do me any harm. I was perfectly willing to go last night, and it was not her fault that Mr. Meredith, instead of going home, as he should have done, stayed on the sea wall and saw me.”