And so there came an evening, the last she was to spend under the steep slate roof of Craigengowan.
Lady Fettercairn was going for a drive among the summer roads that were all like leafy tunnels or long avenues of foliage, to visit that famous senator, Lord Maccowkay, who was then at his country house of Middyn Grange, and Finella, perceiving how pale Dulcie was looking, said:
'May Miss Carlyon come with us, grandmamma?'
'Certainly not,' replied Lady Fettercairn, with hauteur and asperity, though Dulcie was within hearing, carrying Snap in his satin-lined basket. 'When is this sort of thing to end, Finella?'
There came a time when the Lady of that Ilk recalled this remark, and many others similar, for just then she did not see certainly where the future was to end.
So the two ladies drove away, and Dulcie, for companionship, though then unaware that it would be for the last time, took tea with the kindly old housekeeper, whom she found busy in her pantry and closets preparing for that social meal; and Dulcie helped her to cut and butter the bread, polish the cups and saucers and old silver spoons, to arrange the brown tea-cakes, crisp biscuits, and luscious Scottish preserves of home manufacture, and all the while a sadness oppressed her, for which she could not account.
This, however, seemed explained when, at dinner that evening, Lady Fettercairn said, while returning a letter to her pocket:
'Shafto returns late to-night—or early to-morrow morning.'
'From where?' asked Finella, though, sooth to say, she cared little where from.
'Edinburgh.'