It was as if a mocking demon came up between us.

That time it was I who left him.

The next thing I heard was that he and Mademoiselle Croesus were engaged.
I wrote to him--I know it wasn't the proper sort of letter--I daresay he saw through my pretended indifference.

He sent me back my letters as I had asked him to do--wrote me in quite the right strain--said he was not worthy of me--that I'd shewn him I was far above him--that he might not presume to think I could be happy with a man of his inadequate means and position--that he could never forget me--and so on--but that it was best as it is.
And now I've got to get what consolation I can out of my own inner conviction--that it IS best as it is, and that I ought to be thankful for being still Bridget O'Hara, mistress of my own fate, and free yet to sport about--sport!--oh, the irony of it--in what you call the stormy sea of my emotions.
I make over to you the copyright of my sufferings.' The letter broke off abruptly.

It was resumed on another sheet six weeks later at Gaverick Castle.
'Rosamond Tallant has just sent me a writing case I left at their house with these pages in it.