“I will write to you, Tom.” Grace’s gray eyes were heavy with unshed tears. She winked desperately to keep them back. She would not cry. Luckily the dim light of the room prevented Tom from seeing how near she was to breaking down. It was all so sad. She had never before realized how much it hurt her to hurt Tom. She followed him into the hall and to the door in silence.
“Good-bye, Grace,” he said again, holding out his hand.
“Good-bye, Tom,” she faltered. He turned abruptly and hurried down the steps into the winter darkness. He did not look back.
Grace stood in the open door until the echo of his footsteps died out. Then she rushed into the living room and, throwing herself down on the big leather sofa, burst into bitter tears.
CHAPTER XVII
THE SUMMONS
“There are Deans and deans,” observed Emma Dean with savage emphasis, “but the Deans, of whom I am which, are, in my humble opinion, infinitely superior to the dean person stalking about the halls of dear old Overton.”
“What do you mean, Emma?” asked Grace. The dry bitterness of her friend’s outburst regarding deans in general was too significant to be allowed to pass unquestioned.