“Dear John,” she whispered. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. With people of that sort all sorts of things may happen. Bête, she told herself fiercely. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. It is not a dissipated face. “Get me some brandy and my bag. If you want advice, your aunt is the person.
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