"So this great heiress," said he smiling, "who, as far as I could see--under her hood--seems no less fair than rich, is the daughter, I presume, of the Mr Trevanion whose effusions you so kindly submit to me. He is very rich, then? You never said so, yet I ought to have known it: but you see I know nothing of your _beau monde_--not even that Miss Trevanion is one of the greatest heiresses in England." "Yes, Mr Trevanion is rich," said I, repressing a sigh--"very rich." "And you are his secretary! My dear friend, you may well offer me patience, for a large stock of yours will, I hope, be superfluous to you." "I don't understand you." "Yet you heard that young gentleman as well as myself; and you are in the same house as the heiress." "Vivian!" "Well, what have I said so monstrous?" "Pooh! since you refer to that young gentleman,--you heard, too, what his companion told him,--'one ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire to Fanny Trevanion!'" "Tut! as well say that one ought to be a _millionnaire_ to aspire to a million!--yet I believe those who make millions generally begin with pence." "That belief should be a comfort and encouragement to you, Vivian. And now, good-night,--I have much to do." "Good-night, then," said Vivian, and we parted. I made my way to Mr Trevanion's house, and to the study. There was a formidable arrear of business waiting for me, and I sate down to it at first resolutely; but, by degrees, I found my thoughts wandering from the eternal blue-books, and the pen slipped from my hand, in the midst of an extract from a Report on Sierra Leone. My pulse beat loud and quick; I was in that state of nervous fever which only emotion can occasion. The sweet voice of Fanny rang in my ears; her eyes, as I had last met them, unusually gentle--almost beseeching--gazed upon me wherever I turned; and then, as in mockery, I heard again those words,--"One ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire to"--Oh! did I aspire? Was I vain fool so frantic?--household traitor so consummate? No, no! Then what did I under the same roof?--why stay to imbibe this sweet poison, that was corroding the very springs of my life? At that self-question, which, had I been but a year or two older, I should have asked long before, a mortal terror seized me; the blood rushed from my heart, and left me cold--icy cold. To leave the house! leave Fanny!--never again to see those eyes--never to hear that voice!--better die of the sweet poison than of the desolate exile! I rose--I opened the windows--I walked to and fro the room: I could decide nothing--think of nothing; all my mind was in an uproar. With a violent effort at self-mastery, I approached the table again. I resolved to force myself to my task, if it were only to re-collect my faculties, and enable them to bear my own torture. I turned over the books impatiently, when, lo! buried amongst them, what met my eye--archly, yet reproachfully? the face of Fanny herself! Her miniature was there.