“No, he will not,” she answered her, quite steadily. “It will be as I said it would,--he will never come again.” But when they reached their room, the unnatural, strained quiet gave way, and she flung herself upon the bed, sobbing and fighting against just the hysterical suffering which had conquered her the night before. It was the very ghost of the old indomitable Dolly who rose the next morning. Her hands shook as she dressed her hair, and there were shadows under her eyes. But she must go back to Brabazon Lodge, notwithstanding. “I can say I have a nervous headache,” she said to Aimée. “Nervous headaches are useful things.” “If a letter comes,” said Aimée, “I will bring it to you myself.” The girl turned toward her suddenly, her eyes hard and bright and her mouth working. “I have had my last letter,” she said. “My last letters came to me when Grif laid that package upon the table. He has done with me.” “Done with you?” cried Aimée, frightened by her manner. “With _you_, Dolly?” Then for the first time Dolly flushed scarlet to the very roots of her hair. “Yes,” she said, “he has done with me. If there had been half a chance that he would ever come near me again, the letter I wrote to him that night would have brought him. A word of it would have brought him,--the first word. But he is having his revenge by treating it with contempt. He is showing me that it is too late, and that no humility on my part can touch him. I scarcely could have thought that of him,” dropping into a chair by the toilet-table and hiding her face in her hands. “It is not like Grif to let me humble myself for nothing. And I did humble myself,--ah, how I did humble myself! That letter,--if you could have seen it, Aimée,--it was all on fire with love for him. I laid myself under his feet,--and he has trodden me down! Grif--Grif, it was n't like you,--it was n't worthy of you,--it was n't indeed!” Her worst enemy would have felt herself avenged if she had heard the anguish in her voice. She was crushed to the earth under this last great blow of feeling that he had altered so far. Grif,--her whilom greatest help and comfort,--the best gift God had given her! Dear, old, tender, patient fellow! as she had been wont to call him in her fits of penitence.