Next morning early, Dolly left Combe Neville on her way to London.
When she reached the station, Walter was on the platform with a
bunch of white roses. He handed them to her deferentially as she
took her seat in the third-class carriage; and so sobered was Dolly
by this great misfortune that she forgot even to feel a passing
pang of shame that Walter should see her travel in that humble
fashion. "Remember," he whispered in her ear, as the train steamed
out, "we are still engaged; I hold you to your promise."

And Dolly, blushing maidenly shame and distress, shook her head
decisively. "Not now," she answered. "I must wait till I know the
truth. It has always been kept from me. And now I WILL know it."

She had not slept that night. All the way up to London, she kept
turning her doubt over. The more she thought of it, the deeper it
galled her. Her wrath waxed bitter against Herminia for this evil
turn she had wrought. The smouldering anger of years blazed forth
at last. Had she blighted her daughter's life, and spoiled so fair
a future by obstinate adherence to those preposterous ideas of
hers?

Never in her life had Dolly loved her mother. At best, she had
felt towards her that contemptuous toleration which inferior minds
often extend to higher ones. And now--why, she hated her.