‘No, you would not dare to say it. But you are wicked enough to think it--you who have known me all my life. This ends everything between us.’ ‘I should think so,’ said Miss Scales. ‘I shall pack my trunks to-night, and leave Little Yafford the first thing to-morrow morning.’ ‘It will be best so,’ replied Beatrix, and she turned Puck with a suddenness that swung the chaise round in a manner to make Miss Scales a second time in fear of her life. Beatrix drove home in silence, went straight to her own room, and shut herself in there. Her own maid, Mary, carried her up some tea, and she sent a message to Miss Scales excusing herself from going down to dinner on the ground of a headache. Had she said a heartache it would have been the truth. Miss Scales ate her dinner in sullen state, meditating her life of independence with Floss and Fido. She asked Peacock to order a fly for her at a quarter past seven next morning, in time to catch the quarter-past eight London train at Great Yafford. She devoted the evening to packing her trunks, weeding out a few scarecrow odds and ends of finery from the garden of her wardrobe as a parting bequest to Mary. She left the Water House in the early winter gray, without having seen Beatrix. Peacock handed her an envelope at the last moment, which she opened presently in the fly. It contained no word of farewell, only bank-notes for the current quarter’s salary. This was the first absolute desertion. Beatrix felt it heavily. She had been wounded at Bella Scratchell’s keeping aloof from her, as she had done since her visit ended. She was more deeply wounded by Miss Scales’s abandonment. Before the day was out she was to receive another and much heavier blow. A letter was brought her, late in the evening, from Cyril Culverhouse. It was only the second letter she had ever received from him, but she could have sworn to his handwriting if it had been shown her among a thousand. There is no expert keener-eyed in these things than love. ‘At last!’ she said to herself, with a great wave of joy drowning her heart. That the letter might bring evil tidings never occurred to her. It was like the leaflet in the beak of the dove. It meant that the dark days were ended, and the glad world was beginning to smile upon her again. The letter was long, but she had not read many lines before despair seized her. She uttered no cry or groan. She sat with the letter held tightly in her convulsed hand, devouring the cruel words.