Garrett Trojan had considered the matter for two days and had come to
no conclusion. His manner of considering anything was peculiar. He
loved procrastination and coloured future events with such beautiful
radiancy that, when they actually came, the shock of finding them only
drab was so terrible that he avoided them altogether. He was, however,
saved from any lasting pain and disappointment because he had been
given, from early childhood, that splendid gift of discovering himself
to be the continual hero of a continual play. It was not only that he
could make no move in life at all without being its hero--that, of
course, was pleasant enough; but that it was always a fresh discovery
was truly the amazing thing. He was able to wake up, as it were, and
discover afresh, every day of his life, what a hero he was; this was
never monotonous, never wearisome. He played the game anew from day to
day--and the best part of the game was not knowing that it was a game
at all.
It must be admitted that he only maintained the illusion by keeping
somewhat apart from his fellow-men--too frequent contact must have
destroyed his dreams. But his aloofness was termed preserving his
individuality, and in the well-curtained library, in carpet-slippers
and a smoking-jacket, he built his own monument with infinite care
before an imaginary crowd in an imaginary city of dreams.
There were times, of course, when he was a little uneasy. He had heard
men titter at the Club: Clare had, occasionally, spoken plain words as
to his true position in the House, and he had even, at times, doubts as
to the permanent value of the book on which he was engaged. During
these awful moments he gazed through the rent curtain into a valley of
dead men's bones ruled by a dreary god who had no knowledge of Garrett
Trojan and cared very little for the fortunes of the Trojan House.
But a diligent application to the storehouses of his memory produced
testimonials dragged, for the most part, from reluctant adherents which
served to prove that Garrett Trojan was a great man and the head of a
great family.
He would, however, like some definite act to prove conclusively that he
was head. He had, at times, the unhappy suspicion that an outsider,
regarding the matter superficially, might be led to conclude that Clare
held command. He found that if he interfered at all in family matters
this suspicion was immediately strengthened, and so he confined himself
to his room and watered diligently the somewhat stinted crop of
Illusions.
Nevertheless he felt the necessity of some prominent action that would
still for ever his suspicions of incompetence, and would afford him a
sure foundation on which to build his palace of self-complacency and
personal appreciation. During his latter years he had regarded himself
as his father's probable successor. Harry had seemed a very long way
off in New Zealand, and became, eventually, an improbable myth, for
Garrett had that happy quality bestowed on the ostrich of sticking his
head into the sand of imagination and boastfully concluding that facts
were not there. Harry was a fact, but by continuously asserting that
New Zealand was a long way off and that Harry would never come back,
Harry's existence became a very pleasant fairy-story, like nautical
tales of the sea-serpent and the Bewitching Mermaid. They might be
there, and it was very pleasant to listen to stories about them, but
they had no real bearing on life as he knew it.
Harry's return had, of course, shattered this bubble, and Garrett had
had to yield all hopes of eventual succession. He had, on the whole,
borne it very well, and had come to the conclusion that succeeding his
father would have entailed the performance of many wearisome duties;
but that future being denied him, it was more than ever necessary to
seize some opportunity of personal distinction.
The discussion as to the destruction of the Cove had seemed to offer
him every chance of attaining a prominent position. The matter had
grown in importance every day. Pendragon had divided into two separate
and sharply-distinguished camps, one standing valiantly by its standard
of picturesque tradition and its hatred of modern noise and
materialism, the other asserting loudly its love of utility and
progress, derisively pointing the finger of scorn at old-world
Conservatism run mad and an incredible affection for defective
drainage. Garrett had flung himself heart and soul (as he said) into
the latter of these parties, and, feeling that this was a chance of
distinction that fortune was not likely to offer him again in the near
future, appeared frequently at discussions and even on one occasion in
the Town Hall spoke.
But he was surprised and disappointed; he found that he had nothing to
say, the truth being that he was much more interested in Garrett than
in the Cove, and that his audience had come to listen to the second of
these two subjects rather than the first. He found himself shelved; he
was most politely told that he was not wanted, and he retired into his
carpet-slippers again after one of those terrible quarters of an hour
when he peeped past the curtain and saw a miserable, naked puppet
shivering in a grey world, and that puppet was Garrett Trojan.
Then suddenly a second opportunity presented itself. Robin's trouble
was unexpectedly reassuring. This, he told himself, was the very
thing. If he could only prove to the world that he had dealt
successfully with practical matters in a practical way, he need never
worry again. Let him deal with this affair promptly and resourcefully,
as a man of the world and a true Trojan, and his position was assured.
He must obtain the letters and at once. He spent several pleasant
hours picturing the scene in which he returned the letters to Robin.
He knew precisely the moment, the room, the audience that he would
choose--he had decided on the words that he would speak, but he was not
sure yet as to how he would obtain the letters.
He thought over it for three days and came to no conclusion. It ought
not to be difficult; the girl was probably one of those common
adventuresses of whom one heard so often. He had never actually met
one--they did not suit carpet-slippers--but one knew how to deal with
them. It was merely a matter of tact and _savoir-faire_.
Yes, it would be fun when he flourished the letters in the face of the
family; how amazed Clare would be and how it would please Robin!--and
then he suddenly awoke to the fact that time was getting on, and that
he had done nothing. And, after all, there were only two possible
lines of action--to write or to seek a personal interview. Of these he
infinitely preferred the first. He need not leave his room, he could
direct operations from his arm-chair, and he could preserve that
courtesy and decorum that truly befitted a Trojan. But he had grave
fears that the letter would not be accepted; Robin's had been scorned
and his own might suffer the same fate--no, he was afraid that it must
be a personal interview.
He had come to this conclusion reluctantly, and now he hesitated to act
on it; she might be violent, and he felt that he could not deal with
melodrama. But the thought of ultimate victory supported him. The
delicious surprise of it, the gratitude, the security of his authority
from all attack for the rest of his days! Ah yes, it was worth it.
He dressed carefully in a suit of delicate grey, wearing, as he did on
all public occasions, an eyeglass. He took some time over his
preparations and drank a whisky and soda before starting; he had
secured the address from Robin, without, he flattered himself, any
discovery as to the reason of his request. 10 Seaview Terrace! Ah
yes, he knew where that was--a gloomy back street, quite a fitting
place for such an affair.
He was still uncertain as to the plan of campaign, but he could not
conceive it credible that any young woman in any part of the British
Empire would stand up long against a Trojan--it would, he felt certain,
prove easy.
He noticed with pleasure the attention paid to him by the down-at-heels
servant--it was good augury for the success of the interview. He
lowered his voice to a deep bass whilst asking for Miss Feverel, and he
fixed his eyeglass at a more strikingly impressive angle. He looked at
women from four points of view, and he had, as it were, a sliding scale
of manners on which he might mark delicately his perception of their
position. There was firstly the Countess, or Titled Nobility. Here
his manner was slightly deferential, and at the same time a little
familiar--proof of his own good breeding.
Secondly, there was the Trojan, or the lady of Assured Position. Here
he was quite familiar, and at the same time just a little
patronising--proof of his sense of Trojan superiority.
Thirdly, there was the Governess, or Poor Gentility Position. To
members of this class he was affably kind, conveying his sense of their
merits and sympathy with their struggle against poverty, but
nevertheless marking quite plainly the gulf fixed between him and them.
Fourthly, there were the Impossibles, or the Rest--ranging from the
wives of successful Brewers to that class known as Unfortunate. Here
there was no alteration in his manner; he was stern, and short, and
stiff with all of them, and the reason of their existence was one of
the unsolved problems that had always puzzled him. This woman would,
of course, belong to this latter class--he drew himself up haughtily as
he entered the drawing-room.
Dahlia Feverel was alone, seated working in the window. Life was
beginning to offer attractions to her again. The thought of work was
pleasing; she had decided to train as a nurse, and she began to see
Robin in a clear, true light; she was even beginning to admit that he
had been right, that their marriage would have been a great mistake.
The announcement of Garrett Trojan took her by surprise--she gathered
her work together and rose, her brain refusing to act consecutively.
He wanted, of course, the letters--well, she had not got them.... It
promised to be rather amusing.
And he on his side was surprised. He had expected a woman with
frizzled hair and a dress of violent colours; he saw a slender, pale
girl in black, and she looked rather more of a lady than he had
supposed. He was, in spite of himself, confused. He began hurriedly--
"I am Mr. Garrett Trojan--I dare say you have heard of me from my
nephew--Robin--Robert--with whom, I believe, you are acquainted,
Miss--ah--Feverel. I have come on his behalf to request the return of
some letters that he wrote to you during the summer."
He drew a breath and paused. Well, that was all right anyhow, and
quite sufficiently business-like.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Trojan?" she said, smiling at him. "It is
good of you to have taken so much trouble simply about a few
letters--and you really might have written, mightn't you, and saved
yourself a personal visit?"
He refused to sit down and drew himself up. "Now I warn you, Miss
Feverel," he said, "that this is no laughing matter. You are doing a
very foolish thing in keeping the letters--very foolish--ah! um! You
must, of course, see that--exceedingly foolish!"
He came to a pause. It was really rather difficult to know what to say
next.
"Ah, Mr. Trojan," she answered, "you must leave me to judge about the
foolishness of it. After all, they are my letters."
"Pure waste of time," he answered, his voice getting a little shrill.
"After all, there can be no question about it. We _must_ have the
letters--we are ready to go to some lengths to obtain them--even--ah,
um--money----"
"Now, Mr. Trojan," she said quickly, "you are scarcely polite. But I
am sure that you will see no reason for prolonging this interview when
I say that, under no circumstances whatever, can I return the letters.
That is my unchanging decision."
He had no words; he stared at her, dumb with astonishment. This open
defiance was the very last thing that he had expected. Then, at last--
"You refuse?" he said with a little gasp.
"Yes," she answered lightly, "and I cannot see anything very
astonishing in my refusal. They are my property, and it is nobody
else's business at all."
"But it is," he almost screamed. "Business! Why, I should think it
was! Do you think we want to have a scandal throughout the kingdom?
Do you imagine that it would be pleasant for us to have our name in all
the papers--our name that has never known disgrace since the days of
William the Conqueror? You can have," he added solemnly, "very little
idea of the value of a name if you imagine that we are going to
tolerate its abuse in this fashion. Dear me, no!"
He was growing quite red at the thought of his possible failure. The
things in the room annoyed him--the everlasting rustling on the
mantelpiece--a staring photograph of Mr. Feverel, deceased, that seemed
to follow him, protestingly, round and round the room--a corner of a
dusty grey road seen dimly through dirty window-panes; why did people
live in such a place--or, rather, why did such people live at all?--and
to think that it was people like that who dared to threaten Trojan
honour! How could Robin have been such a fool!
So, feeling that the situation was so absurd that argument was out of
place, he began to bluster--
"Come now, Miss Feverel--this won't do, you know! it won't really.
It's too absurd--quite ridiculous. Why, you forget altogether who the
Trojans are! Why, we've been years and years--hundreds of years! You
can't intend to oppose institutions of that kind! Why--it's
impossible--you don't realise what you're doing. Dear me, no! Why,
the whole thing's fantastic--" and then rather lamely, "You'll be
sorry, you know."
She had been listening to him with amusement. It was pleasant to have
the family on its knees like this after its treatment of her. He was
saying, too, very many of the things that his brother had said, but how
different it was!
"You know, Mr. Trojan," she said, "that I can't help feeling that you
are making rather a lot of it. After all, I haven't said that I'm
going to do anything with the letters, have I?--simply keep them, and
that, I think, I am quite entitled to do. And really my mind won't
change about that--I cannot give them to you."
"Cannot!" he retorted eagerly. "Why, it's easy enough. You know, Miss
Feverel, it won't do to play with me. I'm a man of the world and
fencing won't do, you know--not a bit of it. When I say I mean to have
the letters, I mean to have them, and--ah, um--that's all about it. It
won't do to fence, you know," he said again.
"But I'm not fencing, Mr. Trojan, I'm saying quite plainly what is
perfectly true, that I cannot let you have the letters--nothing that
you can say will change my mind."
And he really didn't know what to say. He didn't want to have a
scene--he shrunk timidly from violence of any kind; but he really must
secure the letters. How they would laugh at the Club! Why, he could
hear the guffaws of all Pendragon! London would be one enormous scream
of laughter!--all Europe would be amused! and to his excited fancy Asia
and Africa seemed to join the chorus! A Trojan and a common girl in a
breach of promise case! A Trojan!
"I say," he stammered, "you don't know how serious it is. People will
laugh, you know, if you bring the case on. Of course it was silly of
him--Robin, I mean. I can't conceive myself how he ever came to do
such a thing. Boys will be boys, and you're rather pretty, my dear.
But, bless me, if we were to take all these little things seriously,
why, where would some of us be?" He paused, and hinted impressively at
a hideous past. "You _are_ attractive, you know." He looked at her in
his most flattering manner--"Quite a nice girl, only you shouldn't take
it seriously--really you shouldn't."
This manner of speech was a great deal more offensive than the other,
and Dahlia got up, her cheeks flushed--
"That is enough, Mr. Trojan. I think this had better come to an end.
I can only repeat what I have said already, that I cannot give you the
letters--and, indeed, if I had ever intended to do so, your last
speech, at least, would have changed my mind--I am sorry that I cannot
oblige you, but there is really nothing further to be said."
He tried to stammer something; he faced her for a moment and
endeavoured to be indignant, and then, to his own intense astonishment,
found that he was walking down the stairs with the drawing-room door
closed behind him. How amazing!--but he had done his best, and, if he
had failed, why, after all, no other man could have succeeded any
better. And she really was rather bewitching--he had not expected
anything quite like that. What had he expected? He did not know, but
he thought of his softly-carpeted, nicely-cushioned room with
pleasurable anticipation. He would fling himself into his book when he
got back ... he had several rather neat ideas.... He noticed, with
pleasure, that the young man standing by the door of Mead's Groceries
touched his hat very respectfully, and Twitchett, his tailor, bowed.
Come, come! There were a few people left who had some sense of Trojan
supremacy. It wasn't such a bad world! He would have tea in his
room--not with Clare--and crumpets--yes, he liked crumpets.
Dahlia went back to her work with a sigh. What, she wondered, would be
the next move? It had not been quite so amusing as she had expected,
but it had been a little more exciting. For she had a curious feeling
in it all, that she was fighting Harry Trojan's battles. These were
the people that had insulted him just as they had insulted her, and now
they would have to pay for it, they would have to go to him as they had
gone to her and crawl on their knees. But what a funny situation!
That she should play the son for the father, and that she should be
able to look at her own love affair so calmly! Poor Robin--he had
taught her a great deal, and now it was time for him to learn his own
lesson. For her the episode was closed and she was looking forward to
the future. She would work and win her way and have done with
sentiment. Friendship was the right thing--the thing that the world
was meant for--but _Love_--Ah! that wounded so much more than it
blessed!
But she was to have further experiences--the Trojan family had not done
with her yet. Garrett had been absent barely more than half an hour
when the servant again appeared at the door with, "Miss Trojan, Miss
Dahlia, would like to see yer and is waiting in the 'all." Her hand
twitching at her apron and mouth gaping with astonishment testified to
her curiosity. For weeks the house had been unvisited and now, in a
single day--!
"Show her up, Annie!"
She was a little agitated; Garrett had been simple enough and even
rather amusing, but Clare Trojan was quite another thing. She was,
Dahlia knew, the head of the family and a woman of the world. But
Dahlia clenched her teeth; it was this person who was responsible for
the whole affair--for the father's unhappiness, for the son's
disloyalty. It was she who had been, as it were, behind Robin's
halting speeches concerning inequality and one's duty to the family.
Here was the head of the House, and Dahlia held the cards.
But Clare was very calm and collected as she entered the room. She had
decided that a personal interview was necessary, but had rather
regretted that it could not be conducted by letter. But still if you
had to deal with that kind of person you must put up with their
methods, and having once made up her mind about a thing she never
turned back.
She hated the young person more bitterly than she had ever hated any
one, and she would have heard of her death with no shadow of pity but
rather a great rejoicing. In the first place, the woman had come
between Clare and Robin; secondly, she threatened the good name of the
family; thirdly, she was forcing Clare to do several things that she
very much disliked doing. For all these reasons the young person was
too bad to live--but she had no intention of being uncivil. Although
this was her first experience of diplomacy, she had very definite ideas
as to how such things ought to be conducted, and civility would hide a
multitude of subtleties. Clare meant to be very subtle, very kind,
and, once the letters were in her hand, very unrelenting.
She was wearing a very handsome dress of grey silk with a large picture
hat with grey feathers: she entered the room with a rustle, and the
sweep of the skirts spoke of infinite condescension.
"Miss Feverel, I believe--" she held out her hand--"I am afraid this is
a most unceremonious hour for a call, and if I have interrupted you in
your work, pray go on. I wouldn't for the world. What a day, hasn't
it been? I always think that these sort of grey depressing days are so
much worse than the downright pouring ones, don't you? You are always
expecting, you know, and then nothing ever comes."
Dahlia looked rather nervous in the window, and on her face there
fluttered a rather uncertain smile.
"Yes," she said, a little timidly; "but I think that most of the days
here are grey."
"Ah, you find that, do you? Well, now, that's strange, because I must
say that I haven't found that my own experience--and Cornwall, you
know, is said to be the land of colour--the English Riviera some,
rather prettily, call it--and St. Ives, you know, along the coast is
quite a place for painters because of the colour that they get there."
Dahlia said "Yes," and there was a pause. Then Clare made her plunge.
"You must wonder a little, Miss Feverel, what I have come about. I
really must apologise again about the hour. But I won't keep you more
than a moment; and it is all quite a trivial matter--so trivial that I
am ashamed to disturb you about it. I would have written, but I
happened to be passing and--so--I came in."
"Yes?" said Dahlia.
"Well, it's about some letters. Perhaps you have forgotten that my
nephew, Robert Trojan, wrote to you last summer. He tells me that you
met last summer at Cambridge and became rather well acquainted, and
that after that he wrote to you for several months. He tells me that
he wrote to you asking you to return his letters, and that you,
doubtless through forgetfulness, failed to reply. He is naturally a
little nervous about writing to you again, and so I thought that--as I
was passing--I would just come and see you about the matter. But I am
really ashamed to bother you about anything so trivial."
"No," answered Dahlia, "I didn't forget--I wrote--answered Robin's
letter."
"Ah! you did? Then he must have misunderstood you. He certainly gave
me to understand----"
"Yes, I wrote to Robin saying that I was sorry--but I intended to keep
the letters."
Clare paused and looked at her sharply. This was the kind of thing
that she had expected; of course the young person would bluff and stand
out for a tall price, which must, if necessary, be paid to her.
"But, Miss Feverel, surely"--she smiled deprecatingly--"that can't be
your definite answer to him. Poor Robin!--surely he is entitled to
letters that he himself has written."
"Might I ask, Miss Trojan, why you are anxious that they should be
returned?"
"Oh, merely a whim--nothing of any importance. But Robin feels, as I
am sure you must, that the whole episode--pleasant enough at the time,
no doubt--is over, and he feels that it would be more completely closed
if the letters were destroyed."
"Ah! but there we differ!" said Dahlia sharply. "That's just what I
don't feel about it. I value those letters, Miss Trojan, highly."
Now what, thought Clare, exactly was she? Number One, the intriguing
adventuress? Number Two, the outraged woman? Number Three, the
helpless girl clinging to her one support? Now, of Numbers One and Two
Clare had had no experience. Such persons had never come her way, and
indeed of Number Three she could know very little; so she escaped from
generalities and fixed her mind on the actual girl in front of her.
This was most certainly no intriguing adventuress. Clare had quite
definite ideas about that class of person; but she very possibly was
the outraged female. At any rate, she would act on that conclusion.
"My dear young lady," she said softly, "you must not think that I do
not sympathise. I do indeed, from the bottom of my heart. Robin has
behaved abominably, and any possible reparation we, as a family, will
gladly pay. I think, however, that you are a little hard on him. He
was young, so were you; and it is very easy for us--we women
especially--to mistake the reality of our affection. Robin at any rate
made a mistake and saw it--and frankly told you so. It was
wrong--very; but I cannot help feeling--forgive me if I speak rather
plainly--that it would be equally wrong on your part if you were to
indulge any feeling of revenge."
"There is not," said Dahlia, "any question of revenge."
"Ah," said Clare brightly, "you will let me have the letters, then?"
"I cannot," Dahlia answered gravely. "Really, Miss Trojan, I'm afraid
that we can gain nothing by further discussion. I have looked at the
matter from every point of view, and I'm afraid that I can come to no
other decision."
Clare stared in front of her. What was to be her next move? Like
Garrett, she had been brought to a standstill by Dahlia's direct
refusal. Viewing the matter indefinitely, from the security of her own
room, it had seemed to her that the girl would be certain to give way
at the very mention of the Trojan name. She would face Robin--yes,
that was natural enough, because, after all, he was only a boy and had
no knowledge of the world and the proper treatment of such a case--but
when it came to the head of the family with all the influence of the
family behind her, then instant submission seemed inevitable.
Clare was forced to realise that instant submission was very far away
indeed, and that the girl sitting quietly in the window showed little
sign of yielding. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and her
voice was a little sharper.
"It seems then, Miss Feverel, that it is a question of terms. But why
did you not say so before? I would have told you at once that we are
willing to pay a very considerable sum for the return of the letters."
Dahlia's face flushed, and after a moment's pause she rose from her
chair and walked towards Clare.
"Miss Trojan," she said quietly, "I have no intention of taking money
for them--or, indeed, of taking anything."
"I'm sure," broke in Clare, flushing slightly, "_I_ had no intention
of----"
"Ah--no, I know," went on Dahlia. "But it is not, I assure you, a case
for melodrama--but a very plain, simple little affair that is happening
everywhere all the time. You say that you cannot understand why I
should wish to keep the letters. Let me try and explain, and also let
me try and urge on you that it is really no good at all trying to
change my mind. It is now several days since I had my last talk with
Robin, and I have, of course, thought a good deal about it--it is
scarcely likely that half-an-hour's conversation with you will change a
determination that I have arrived at after ten days' hard thinking.
And surely it is not hard to understand. Six months ago I was happy
and inexperienced. I had never been in love, and, indeed, I had no
idea of its meaning. Then your nephew came: he made love to me, and I
loved him in return."
She paused for a moment. Clare looked sympathetic. Then Dahlia
continued: "He meant no harm, no doubt, and perhaps for the time he was
quite serious in what he said. He was, as you say, very young. But it
was a game to him--it was everything to me. I treasured his letters, I
thought of them day and night. I--but, of course, you know the kind of
thing that a girl goes through when she is in love for the first time.
Then I came here and went through some bad weeks whilst he was making
up his mind to tell me that he loved me no longer. Of course, I saw
well enough what was happening--and I knew why it was--it was the
family at his back."
A murmur from Clare. "I assure you, Miss Feverel."
"Oh yes, Miss Trojan, you don't suppose that I cared for you very much
during those weeks. I suffered a little, too, and it changed me from a
girl into a woman--rather too quickly to be altogether healthy,
perhaps. And then he came and told me in so many words. I thought at
first that it had broken my heart; a girl does, you know, when it
happens the first time, but you needn't be afraid--my heart's all
right--and I wouldn't marry Robin now if he begged me to. But it had
hurt, all of it, and perhaps one's pride had suffered most of all--and
so, of course, I kept the letters. It was the one way that I could
hurt you. I'm frank, am I not?--but every woman would do the same.
You see you are so very proud, you Trojans!
"It is not only that you thank God that you are not as other men, but
you are so bent on making the rest of us call out 'Miserable sinner!'
very loudly and humbly. And we don't believe it. Why should we?
Everybody has their own little bits o' things that they treasure, and
they don't like being told that they're of no value at all. Why, Miss
Trojan, I'm quite a proud person really--you'd be surprised if you
knew."
She laughed, and then sat down on the sofa opposite Clare, with her
chin resting on her hand.
"So you see, Miss Trojan, it's natural, after all, that I kept the
letters."
Clare had listened to the last part of her speech in silence, her lips
firmly closed, her hands folded on her lap. As she listened to her she
knew that it was quite hopeless, that nothing that she could ever say
would change the young person's mind. She was horribly disappointed,
of course, and it would be terrible to be forced to return to Robin,
and tell him that she had failed: for the first time she would have to
confess failure--but really she could not humble herself any longer:
she was not sure that, even now, she had not unbent a little more than
was necessary. If the young person refused to consider the question of
terms there was no more to be said--and how dare she talk about the
Trojans in that way?
"Really, Miss Feverel, I scarcely think that it is necessary for us to
enter into a discussion of that kind, is it? I daresay you have every
reason for personal pride--but really that is scarcely my affair, is
it? If no offer of money can tempt you--well, really, there the matter
must rest, mustn't it? Of course I am sorry, but you know your own
mind. But that you should think yourself insulted by such an offer is,
it seems to me, a little absurd. It is quite obvious what you mean to
do with them."
Dahlia smiled.
"Is it?" she said. "That is very clever of you, Miss Trojan. I am
sorry that you should have so much trouble for such a little result."
"There is no more to be said," answered Clare, moving to the door.
"Good morning," and she was gone.
"Oh dear," said Dahlia, as she went back to the window, "how unpleasant
she is. Poor Robin! What a time he will have!"
For her the pathos was over, but for them--well--it had not begun.