'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