He hurried away. No sooner was he gone than Mrs. Damerel sprang to the window, where she could look down upon the carriage standing before the house; it was open, and in it sat two ladies, one middle-aged, the other much younger. To her vexation she could not, from this distance, clearly discern their faces; but on glancing rapidly round the room, she saw Horace’s little binocular. An instant brought it into focus upon the carriage, and what she then saw gave Mrs. Damerel such a shock, that an exclamation escaped her. Still she gazed through the glasses, and only turned away when the vehicle drove on. Horace came up flushed and panting. ‘It’s all right. They wanted me to go for a drive, but I explained--’ He saw the binocular in Mrs. Damerel’s hand, and at the same moment read detection on her countenance. She gazed at him; he answered the look with lowering challenge. ‘Horace, that was Fanny French.’ ‘So it was, aunt.’ ‘What is going on between you?’ The young man took a seat on the edge of the table, and swung his leg. He looked suddenly obstinate. ‘We met by accident--here--the other day.’ ‘How can I believe that, Horace?’ said Mrs. Damerel, in a voice of soft reproach. And she drew near to him. ‘Be truthful with me, dear. Do tell me the truth!--Is she anything to you?’ ‘I have told you the truth, aunt. She came here, as I have done, for her health. I haven’t seen her for two years.’ ‘And you don’t wish to renew acquaintance with her,--I’m sure you don’t.’ He looked away, and said nothing. ‘My dear, do you know her character?’ ‘What about her?’ The tone was startling, but Mrs. Damerel kept firm, though agitated. ‘She has led the most disgraceful life. I heard about her half a year after she ran away, but of course I wouldn’t tell you such painful things.’ Horace reddened with anger. ‘And who is to blame for it?’ he cried passionately. ‘Who drove her to it?’ ‘Oh, don’t, don’t come back to that again, Horace!’ pleaded the other. ‘How can any one drive a girl into a life of scandalous immorality? It was in herself, dear. She took to it naturally, as so many women do. Remember that letter she wrote from Brussels, which I sent you a copy of--’ ‘It was a forgery!’ thundered Horace. ‘I have asked her. She says she never wrote any such letter.’ ‘Then she lies, as such creatures always do.’ Bitterness of apprehension overcame Mrs. Damerel’s prudence. With flashing eyes, she faced the young man and dared his wrath. As they stood thus, the two were astonishingly like each other, from forehead to chin. ‘It’s no use, I’m not going to quarrel with you, aunt. Think what you like of Miss. French, _I_ know the truth about her.’ He slipped from the table, and moved away. ‘I will say no more, Horace. You are independent, and must have your own acquaintances. But after you are married--’ The other voice interrupted. ‘I had better tell you at once. I shall not marry Miss. Chittle. I am going to write this afternoon to break it off.’