“You may put on your hat and take me to the door; but you had better not come in if you are going to finish your letter before the post closes,” she said; “but the short walk will do you good, and the night-air will cool you.” She bade him good-night at the gate when they reached Bloomsbury Place, and she entered the house with her thoughts turning to Mollie. Mollie had been out, too, it seemed. When she went up-stairs to their bedroom, she found her there, standing before the dressing-table, still with her hat on, and looking in evident preoccupation at something she held in her hand. Hearing Aimée, she started and turned round, dropping her hand at her side, but not in time to hide a suspicious glitter which caught her sister's eye. Here was a worse state of affairs than ever. She had something to hide, and she had made up her mind to hide it. She stood up as Aimée approached, looking excited and guilty, but still half-defiant, her lovely head tossed back a little and an obstinate curve on her red lips. But the oracle was not to be daunted. She confronted her with quite a stern little air. “Mollie,” she began at once, without the least hesitation,--“Mollie, you have just this minute hidden something from me, and I should n't have thought you could do it.” Mollie put her closed hand behind her. “_If_ I am hiding something,” she answered, “I am not hiding it without reason.” “No,” returned Dame Prudence, severely, “you are not. You have a very good reason, I am afraid. You are ashamed of yourself, and you know you are doing wrong. You have got a secret, which you are keeping from _me_, Mollie,” bridling a little in the prettiest way. “I didn't think you would keep a secret from _me_.” Mollie, very naturally, was overpowered. She looked a trifle ashamed of herself, and the tears came into her eyes. She drew her hand from behind her back, and held it out with a half-pettish, half-timid gesture. “There!” she said; “if you must see it.” And there, on her pink palm, lay a shining opal ring. “And,” said Aimée, looking at it without offering to touch it, and then looking at her,--“and Mr. Gerald Chandos gave it to you?” “Yes, Mr. Gerald Chandos did,” trying to brave it out, but still appearing the reverse of comfortable. “And you think it proper,” proceeded her inquisitor, “to accept such presents from a gentleman who cares nothing for you?” Care nothing for her! Mollie drew herself upright, with the air of a Zenobia. She had had too few real love affairs not to take arms at once at such an imputation cast upon her prowess. “He cares enough for me to want me to marry him,” she said, and then stopped and looked as if she could have bitten her tongue off for betraying her. Aimée sat down in the nearest chair and stared at her, as if she doubted the evidence of her senses. “To do what?” she demanded.