Time sped by on wings. Weeks passed. Like a girl with a new frock, Sally displayed her youth to her friends--timidly at first, and then with a sort of reckless abandon. Her vivacity and enthusiasm made Gran'pa's initial exploits seem puerile and lukewarm. The illustrated papers clamored for her portrait and she even had several offers to go on the stage "for big money," as one man with a thick voice and a thicker waist put it. But she kept her head throughout and never forgot the dignity of her position as a pioneer in real feminine rejuvenation. Finally, after one of the happiest months in my life, she decided to return to her flat in Maida Vale. Giving her time to get straight, I called one afternoon. "I'm so pleased to see you, George," she said; but she seemed to be a little depressed. "You look worried," I replied. "I'm . . . quite all right . . . really! It's just a headache. . . ." I knew that this was not wholly true. "Won't you confide in me?" I asked. "It's . . ." she hesitated. Then she said suddenly: "I'm hurt, George, and yet--in some ways, I'm relieved. . . ." "What is it, Sally?" "Your grandfather has written asking me to release him from our engagement!" "Impossible! . . . What's the reason?" I stammered. "He says that he doesn't think we're suited to one another. And he wants to be free." She paused, and added, rather quaintly: "He seems to think that there aren't enough adventures in England." "The old fool!" I exclaimed. "You mustn't say that!" "Of course you'll release him. He isn't worthy of you." "I owe everything to him, George," she said in a low voice. "Didn't Croft and Stringer--and I, help?" She looked at me tenderly and gravely. "Can I ever forget it? You've all been--splendid!" For awhile neither of us spoke. Then I said again. "Give him his wretched freedom, Sally!" "I . . . have!" "When?" "Yesterday." Another silence. "Do you regret it?" I asked. "No-o! He was too impulsive--too eager--and reckless. And so very youthful . . . I should never have been really happy with him." She hesitated; and then, with a little shrug of her shoulders, she astonished me by adding: "I can't delude myself any longer, George. I'm an old woman--_really_ old!" What could I say? I looked at her more closely and, although she was sitting with her back to the light, I saw that she was indeed speaking the sorrowful truth. Even during the few weeks which had elapsed since her leaving Richmond, she had aged considerably. Little wrinkles were creeping back to their natural strongholds round the eyes and mouth. Her hair was losing its lustre; her voice its depth; her neck its roundness. When I had first entered the room I had been so surprised and disgusted at the news of Gran'pa's latest folly that I had not noticed the change in Sally. But now it was pathetically evident. Youth was going--going--almost gone. . . .