For she was beginning to realise it slowly. He had gone away, after telling her, brutally, frankly, that he was tired of her--that he had, indeed, never really cared for her. That was it--he had never cared for her--all those things that he had promised in the summer had been false, words without any meaning. All that idyll had been hollow, a sham, and she had made it the centre of her world. She got up from the table and swayed a little as she stood. She pressed her hands against her forehead as though she would drive into her brain the fact that there would be no one now--no one at all--it was all a lie, a lie, a lie! The door opened softly and Mrs. Feverel stole in. "Dahlia--what has he done?" She looked at her as though she could not see her. "Oh, nothing," she said slowly. "He did nothing. Only it's all over--there is not going to be any more." And then, as though the full realisation of it had only just been borne in upon her, she sat down at the table again and burst into passionate crying. Mrs. Feverel watched her. "I knew it was coming, my dear--weeks ago. You know I told you, only you wouldn't listen. Lord! it was plain enough. He'd only been playing the same game as all the rest of them." Dahlia dried her eyes fiercely. "I'm a fool to make so much of it," she said. "I wasn't good enough--he said--not good enough. His people wouldn't like it and the rest--Oh! I've been a fool, a fool!" Her mood changed to anger again. Even now she did not grasp it fully, but he had insulted her. He had flung back in her face all that she had given him. Injured pride was at work now, and for a moment she hated him so that she could have killed him gladly had he been there. But it was no good--she could not think about it clearly; she was tired, terribly tired. "I'm tired to death, mother," she said. "I can't think to-night." She stumbled a little as she turned to the door. "At least," said Mrs. Feverel, "there are the letters." But Dahlia had scarcely heard. "The letters?" she said. "That he wrote in the summer. You have them safe enough?" But the girl did not reply. She only climbed heavily up the dark stairs. CHAPTER IV Clare Trojan was having her breakfast in her own room. It was ten o'clock, and a glorious September morning, and the sparrows were twittering on the terrace outside as though they considered it highly improper for any one to have breakfast between four walls when Nature had provided such a splendid feast on the lawn. Clare was reading a violent article in the _National Review_ concerning the inadequacy of our present solution of the housing problem; but it did not interest her.