a moment she fancied that she
hated him, and then she knew that she still loved him--and she stared
at the grey sea with misery in her heart and a dull, sombre confusion
in her brain. No, she did not hate Robin, she did not really want to
hurt him. How could she, when they had had those wonderful months
together? Those months that seemed such centuries and centuries away.
But, nevertheless, she kept the letters. Her mother had talked about
them, had advised her to keep them. She did not mean to do anything
very definite with them--she could not look ahead very far--but she
would keep them for a little.

When she had seen Robin's handwriting again it had been almost more
than she could bear. For some time she had been unable to tear open
the envelope and speculated, confusedly, on the contents. Perhaps he
had repented. She judged him by her own days and nights of utter
misery and knew that, had it been herself, they would have driven her
back crying to his feet. Perhaps it was to ask for another interview.
That she would refuse. She felt that she could not endure another such
meeting as their last; if he were to come to her without warning, to
surprise her suddenly--her heart beat furiously at the thought; but the
deliberate meeting merely for the purpose of his own advantage--no!

She opened the letter, read the cold lines, and knew that it was
utterly the end. She had fancied, at their last meeting, that her
love, like a bird shot through the heart, had fallen at his feet, dead;
then, after those days of his absence, his figure had grown in her
sight, glorified, resplendent, and love had revived again--now, with
this letter she knew that it was over. She did not cry, she scarcely
moved. She watched the sea, with the letter on her lap, and felt that
a new Dahlia Feverel, a woman who would traffic no longer with
sentiment, who knew the world for what it was--a hard, merciless prison
with fiends for its gaolers--had sprung to birth.

She replied to him and showed her mother her answer. She scarcely
listened to Mrs. Feverel's comments and went about her daily affairs,
quietly, without confusion. She saw herself and Robin like figures in
a play--she applauded the comedy and the tragedy left her unmoved.
Robin Trojan had much to answer for.

He read her second letter with dismay. He had spent the day in
solitary confinement in his room, turning the situation round and round
in his mind, lost in a perfect