aside.  And the necklace of pearls that she had always thought so much too good for her, but which would have looked so beautiful on the wedding-dress; that must be returned.  Very strangely that thought pierced the dull ache of her heart with a mere poignant pain.  And following it came another, stabbing her like a knife.  The sapphire for friendship—­his sapphire—­that would have to go too.  There would be nothing left when it was all over.

And she would never see any of them any more.  She would drop out of their lives and be forgotten.  Even Isabel would not want her now that she had behaved so badly.  She had made Sir Eustace the talk of the County.  So long as they remembered her they would never forgive her for that.

Sir Eustace might forgive.  He had been extraordinarily generous.  A lump rose in her throat as she thought of him.  But the de Vignes, all those wedding guests who were to have honoured the occasion, they would all look upon her with contumely for evermore.  No wonder her mother was enraged against her!  No wonder!  No wonder!  She would never have another chance of holding up her head in such society again.

A great sigh escaped her.  What was the good of sitting there thinking?  She had undressed long ago, and she was cold from head to foot.  Yet somehow she had forgotten or been too miserable to go to bed.  She supposed she had been waiting for the soothing tears that did not come.  Or had she meant to pray?  She could not remember, and in any case prayer seemed out of the question.  Her life had been filled with delight for a few delirious weeks, but it had all drained away.  She did not want it back again.  She scarcely knew what she wanted, save the great Impossible for which she lacked the heart to pray.  And no doubt God was angry with her too, or she could not feel like this!  So what was the good of attempting it?

Wearily she turned to put out her candle.  But ere her hand reached it, she paused in swift apprehension.

The next instant sharply she started round to see the door open, and her mother entered the room.

Gaunt, forbidding, full of purpose, she walked in, and set her candle down beside the one that Dinah had been about to extinguish.

“Get up!” she said to the startled girl.  “Don’t sit there gaping at me!  I’ve come here to give you a lesson, and it will be a pretty severe one I can tell you if you attempt to disobey me.”

“What do you want me to do?” breathed Dinah.

She stood up at the harsh behest, but she was trembling so much that her knees would scarcely support her.  Her heart was throbbing violently, and each throb seemed as if it would choke her.  She had seen that inflexibly grim look often before upon her mother’s face, and she knew from bitter experience that it portended merciless treatment.

Mrs. Bathurst did not reply immediately.  She went to a little table in a corner which Dinah used for writing purposes, and opened a blotter that lay upon it.  From this she took a sheet of note-paper and laid it in readiness, found Dinah’s pen, opened the ink-pot.  Then, over her shoulder, she flung a curt command:  “Come here!”