She went to her aunt’s room and lingered a little by the fire, taking a farewell of her by a quiet lingering, a few commonplace speeches passing between them, the old sayings of the months that were past. Of the two ordeals that lay before her she regarded Frank as the more difficult, for he and his disposal had not been predicted by prophecy or settled to an act, he being rather a menace within her own body where it reached toward life. The aunt settled to her book again, and Theodosia stood by the door of the room, waiting and listening, and presently there was a noise at the front door of the house. She went into the hall then, and, Old Mam and Tilly following after her, she let them come or she laid her hand on Old Mam’s neck to keep her at hand. Frank was coming into the hall, was standing at the door looking cautiously back into the gloom of the half-lit spaces beyond the stairs. She held Old Mam by the collar and called to Tilly, keeping them near. At the foot of the stairs she spoke to Frank across the ten feet that lay between them and she moved backward toward the steps, mounting the first, taking the dogs with her, holding them fast. He was arguing, outraged and unbelieving, growing angry. “I hold no grudge against you,” she said. She kept the dogs close to her, holding their collars. “I will never see you again,” she said. “But I hold no grudge.” She had gone half-way up the steps now, but the ascent was difficult, the dogs unwilling to come. The dogs dragged her back; “They make it too hard,” she thought, half yielding to their strength at the point where her own strength failed. Frank was commanding, accusing, saying she had not been fair. “Drive those devils away,” he shouted after her. “You drive those dogs off. I’m here now. I’ve come.”