t she would
understand. But she didn't--her mother was horrid--and she made a
scene--it was all very unpleasant." Robin was dragging his
handkerchief between his fingers, and looking imploringly at the fire.
"Then I went and saw her again and asked her for--my letters--she said
she'd keep them--and I'm afraid she may use them--and--well, that's
all," he finished lamely.

He thought that hours of terrible silence followed his speech. He sat
motionless in his chair waiting for their words. He was rather glad
now that he had spoken. It had been a relief to unburden himself; for
so many days he had only had his own thoughts and suggestions to apply
to the situation. But he was afraid to look at his aunt.

"You young fool," at last from Garrett. "Who is the girl?"

"A Miss Feverel--she lives with her mother at Sea view Terrace--there
is no father."

"Miss Feverel? What! That girl! You wrote to her! You----"

At last his aunt had spoken. He had never heard her speak like that
before--the "You!" was a cry of horror. She suddenly got up and went
over to him. She bent over him where he sat, with head lowered, and
shook him by the shoulder.

"Robin! It can't be true--you haven't written to that girl! Not
love-letters! It is incredible!"

"It is true--" he said, looking up. "Don't look at me like that, Aunt
Clare. It isn't so bad--other fellows----" but then he was ashamed and
stopped. He would leave his defence alone.

"Is that all?" said Garrett. "All you have done, I mean? You haven't
injured the girl?"

"I swear that's all," Robin said eagerly. "I meant no harm by it. I
wrote the letters without thinking I----"

Clare stood leaning on the mantelpiece, her head between her hands.

"I can't understand it. I can't understand it," she said. "It isn't
like you--not a bit. That girl and you--why, it's incredible!"

"That's only because you had your fancy idea of him, Clare," said
Garrett. "We'd better pass the lamentation stage and decide what's to
be done."

For once Garrett seemed practical; he was pleased with himself for
being so. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was the only person
who could really deal with the situation. Clare was a woman, Harry was
out of the question, Robin was a boy.

"Have you spoken to your father?" he asked.

"No. Of course not!" Robin answered, rather fiercely. "How could I?"

Clare went back to her chair. "That girl! But, Robin, she's
plain