She had not heard from him either by cable or by letter since Darrell’s death, but that was nothing. Communication with him would be necessarily slow. It might be weeks or even months before she should hear, but she was certain of what the purport of his letter would be, and of what his wishes already were. So, dismissing her servants and turning the house over to McBean, she went to live in a small lodging–house, there to await Pelham’s return. She put away from her all the thoughts about him as a lover,—thoughts which would occasionally force themselves upon her, but from which she turned steadfastly,—and thought of him only as a brother and friend, the man most anxious to help her in the world, not even excepting her own father. General Brandon had written to her urgent and affectionate letters, telling her that his heart and hand and home were open to her as the best of daughters; and Elizabeth, whose heart yearned unceasingly for her father, found in the thought of once more being held in her father’s arms the heartiest consolation she could have at that moment. But she knew it was useless to tell General Brandon any of her money difficulties. She understood his straitened circumstances, his mortgaged house, and the story of his Egyptian bonds. The only thing to do was to write Pelham frankly and fully every circumstance of her affairs, and to await his reply in England. She did this, and set herself to the task of waiting. It was now autumn, a dull London autumn, and it seemed to Elizabeth as if she were living in a bad dream. Only the other day she had a devoted husband in Darrell, a friend in Pelham who was all that a friend could be to a woman, a home, servants, carriages, jewels, everything that the heart of woman could ask, with the prospect of having her father as an honored guest; and now she was widowed, alone, and in deep poverty. She had brought her expenses down to the lowest possible penny. Friendless, overwhelmed with debts of which she understood nothing, and in the clutches of a Scotch attorney and a jeweller’s agent, she felt a certainty of relief when Pelham should write and then should come. Every time the lodging–house bell rang, she thought it was Pelham’s letter, but it did not come. Instead came McBean, first hinting and then threatening legal proceedings, especially in regard to the necklace. This seemed to Elizabeth an undeserved outrage and, reënforced by the counsel of the jeweller’s agent, she said firmly, her dark eyes flashing: “That necklace was my husband’s gift to me, his last gift to me, and part of it was his wedding gift. It is to me the most valuable thing on earth apart from what it cost, and it is mine and I shall not give it up. When Major Pelham returns, I promise you he will see the matter as I do.”