"See here," she interrupted. "We'll settle this nonsense right now. If
Eugene Morgan comes to this house, for instance, to see me, your mother
can't get up and leave the place the minute he gets here, can she? What
do you want her to do: insult him? Or perhaps you'd prefer she'd insult
Lucy? That would do just as well. What is it you're up to, anyhow? Do
you really love your Aunt Amelia so much that you want to please her?
Or do you really hate your Aunt Fanny so much that you want to--that you
want to--"

She choked and sought for her handkerchief; suddenly she began to cry.

"Oh, see here," George said. "I don't hate you," Aunt Fanny. "That's
silly. I don't--"

"You do! You do! You want to--you want to destroy the only thing--that
I--that I ever--" And, unable to continue, she became inaudible in her
handkerchief.

George felt remorseful, and his own troubles were lightened: all at
once it became clear to him that he had been worrying about nothing. He
perceived that his Aunt Amelia was indeed an old cat, and that to give
her scandalous meanderings another thought would be the height of folly.
By no means unsusceptible to such pathos as that now exposed before
him, he did not lack pity for Fanny, whose almost spoken confession was
lamentable; and he was granted the vision to understand that his mother
also pitied Fanny infinitely more than he did. This seemed to explain
everything.

He patted the unhappy lady awkwardly upon her shoulder. "There, there!"
he said. "I didn't mean anything. Of course the only thing to do about
Aunt Amelia is to pay no attention to her. It's all right, Aunt Fanny.
Don't cry. I feel a lot better now, myself. Come on; I'll drive back
there with you. It's all over, and nothing's the matter. Can't you cheer
up?"

Fanny cheered up; and presently the customarily hostile aunt and
nephew were driving out Amberson Boulevard amiably together in the hot
sunshine.

Chapter XIV

"Almost" was Lucy's last word on the last night of George's
vacation--that vital evening which she had half consented to agree upon
for "settling things" between them. "Almost engaged," she meant. And
George, discontented with the "almost," but contented that she seemed
glad to wear a sapphire locket with a tiny photograph of George Amberson
Minafer inside it, found himself wonderful in a new world at the final
instant of their parting. For, after declining to let him kiss
her "good-bye," as if his desire