“Come in, if you please, sir. I will send and let Mrs. Berrien and Miss Vincent know that you are here.”
“Miss Vincent!” said Aimée, in a frightened whisper. “That is me—and nobody ever comes to see me! Who can it be?”
Meanwhile Mrs. Shreve’s voice went on amiably: “You wish to see them in private? Then step into my sitting-room, where you will be altogether private, and—Oh! Miss Aimée!”
It was a tableau for a moment—the open door in which stood Mrs. Shreve, bonneted and shawled; Aimée a picture of confusion, with the locket in her hand; and Lennox Kyrle, tall, straight, and handsome, standing before her. The scene, to all appearances, told a story evident to the dullest comprehension; and it was not alone to Mrs. Shreve’s eyes that it was revealed. Behind her was a young man whose glance over her shoulder took it all in.
The tableau lasted only a moment; for Aimée, seeing the face over Mrs. Shreve’s shoulder, uttered an exclamation of surprise, in which pleasure evidently bore no part. “Percy,” she cried, “is it you?”
“Yes, it is I,” answered the young man, coming forward as Mrs. Shreve moved aside. He cast a look of angry suspicion at Kyrle, then, taking Aimée’s hand—which she made no movement to offer—bent and kissed her cheek: “You did not expect to see me,” he said.
“No; why should I?” she answered, blushing so furiously that it was evident his salute was not a customary matter. “Why have you come?”
“To see you—and to take you home,” he answered, with another suspicious glance at Kyrle.
This the latter returned with one of coldly careless scrutiny, and then held out his hand to Aimée.