“My dear,” she said, “I think I ought to tell you something. When you fell, I suppose you must somehow or other have pressed the spring of your locket, for it was open when I went to you, and—I saw the face inside it.”
“Grif,” said Dolly, in a tired voice, “Grif.”
And then she remembered how she had written to him about what this very dénouement would be when it came. How strange, how wearily strange, it was to think that it should come about in such a way as this!
“My nephew,” said Miss MacDowlas. “Griffith Donne.”
“Yes,” said Dolly, briefly. “I was engaged to him.”
“Was!” echoed Miss MacDowlas. “Did he behave badly to you, my dear?”
“No, I behaved badly to him—and that is why I am ill.”
Miss MacDowlas blew her nose.
“How long?” she asked, at length. “May I ask how long you were engaged to each other, my dear? Don't answer me if you do not wish.”
“I was engaged to him,” faltered the girlish voice,—"we were all the world to each other for seven years—for seven long years.”