“No one is likely to attempt to change it,” he replied, with a slight laugh. “But I think you misunderstand me a little,” he added, after a pause, with a sudden impulse of candor. “We were once thrown together very singularly; I am sure you do not forget this any more than I do. Therefore, since we are not strangers, will you let me speak to you frankly?” “Surely, if you wish to do so,” she answered; but he saw that she looked a little startled. “Do not be afraid,” he said, quietly. “I have no intention of saying anything that you need hesitate to hear. But may I ask you to sit down for a moment?” They were now in the _atrium_, or inner porch of the church. Aimée hesitated for an instant, then, turning to her maid, said in French: “Go to the Merceria and make the purchases of which you spoke. I will wait for you here.” “Oui, mademoiselle,” replied the girl, without the change of a feature, and forthwith departed. Kyrle could hardly believe his good fortune, but as Aimée sat down on one of the stone benches fixed against the wall, he said, gratefully: “You are very kind--as kind as I remember you of old. And I have no more forgotten how kind you were then, than I have ceased to thank Heaven for the message you so bravely brought me.” She looked up at him and he saw in her face that she was astonished. “But--” she began, and then paused. “But you thought that I meant something else a minute ago,” he said. “You thought I meant that I found it best to go because I felt the old attraction reviving. Is it not so?” She dropped her eyes. “Was it not natural that I should think so?” she asked. “Perhaps it was natural,” he answered, “but you were mistaken. My only sentiment with regard to that past folly is one of sincerest thankfulness for my escape. The last time we sat like this together--have you forgotten the evening in the orange grove?--I told you that my fancy for Fanny Berrien was dead, killed by her duplicity to me and her selfishness toward you. I may have been a little melodramatic, but I meant exactly what I said. From that day to this her memory has not cost me a pang. As for Mrs. Meredith, she is a very pretty and amusing person, who acted altogether according to her kind, and to whom for her conduct toward myself I bear no malice whatever. On the contrary, my sentiment toward her is one of lively gratitude--although I have never forgiven her for her conduct toward you.” Aimée had lifted her eyes now, and was looking at him again very steadily. It was as if she were deciding in her own mind the question of his sincerity. Then she said, with her old simplicity and directness: “But why do you wish to tell this to me?” “Because,” he answered, “whether I go or whether I stay, I do not wish you to regard me as the victim of a hopeless passion for the wife of Mr. Meredith.” “I should scarcely have thought that,” she answered; “but it was surely natural to fancy that you might remember--with pain--”