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Updated: May 6, 2025
Oh, Grif, my darling! Grif, my love, my dear!" This over again and again, with wild, heart-broken weeping, until she was so worn out that she could cry no more, and lay upon Aimée's arm upon the cushion, white and exhausted, with heavy purple rings about her wearied, sunken eyes. It was not until then that Aimée heard the whole truth.
I never laid this white cheek on your shoulder, did I? Oh, what a changed face it is! I know I was never very pretty, though you thought so and were proud of me in your tender way, but I was not like this in those dear old days. Grif, Grif, would you know me, would you know me?" And, turning to her chair again, she dropped upon her knees before it, and knelt there sobbing.
Even as she lay on her couch, too prostrate to either read or work, she made audacious satirical speeches, and told Miss MacDowlas stories of Vagabondia, just as she used to tell them to Grif himself, only that in these days she could not get up to flourish illustratively; and often after lying for an hour or so in a dead, heavy, exhausting day-sleep, she opened her eyes at last, to jest about her faithful discharge of her duties as companion.
And Mollie, well, Mollie waltzed with Ralph Gowan again on the night of Dolly's reception, and when the dance was at an end, she went and seated herself near her hostess upon the green sofa it was a green sofa, though a far more luxurious one than Dolly and Grif had ever dared to set their hearts upon in the olden days.
Among the stage properties of the Dramatic Club was the old ass's head once used in some tableaux from "Midsummer Night's Dream." This Grif had mended up, and fastened by means of straps and a collar to poor Graciosa's neck, hiding his work with a red cloth over her back.
That was all, only this single rapturous cry, and Dolly, who had before seemed not to have the strength of a child, was sitting up, a white, tremulous figure, with outstretched arms and fluttering breath, and Grif was standing upon the threshold.
What if he had seen them leave Ralph Gowan, and had gone home! "It's too bad!" she cried. "It is cruel! I can't bear it! Oh, Grif, do come!" And her tears fell thick and fast. Ten minutes later she started up with a little cry of joy and relief. That was his footstep upon the pavement, and before he had time to ring she was at the door. She could scarcely speak to him in her excitement.
"It is great grif to me to see her growing so unlike her sainted mother!" He sighed, and I saw his delicate fingers forsake the cigarette they were rolling to make the sacred sign upon his breast. He was always smoking one cigarette and making another; as he lit the new one the glow fell upon a strange pin that he wore, a pin with a tiny crucifix inlaid in mosaic.
She only wants you. Grif, Grif, you look as if you could not understand what I am saying." And she wrung her hands. And, indeed, it scarcely seemed as if he did understand, though at last he spoke. "Where is she?" he said. "Not here? You say I must 'go' to her." "No, she is not here. She is at Lake Geneva.
The fire had sunk low in the grate, and the hearth was strewn with dead ashes; somehow or other, everything seemed chilled and comfortless. She was too late for the brightness and warmth, a few hours before it had been bright and warm, and Grif had been there waiting for her. Where was he now? She dropped her face on the arm of her chair with a sob of disappointed feeling and foreboding.
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