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