Mary. He could not understand "those artist fellows
with their complications"--life for him was perfectly straight-forward.

But the gods had not done with his day. On the way up to his room he
was met by Clare.

"Father is worse," she said quickly. "He took a turn this morning, and
now, perhaps, he will not live through the night. Dr. Turner and Dr.
Craile are both with him. He asked for you a little while ago."

She passed down the stairs--the quiet, self-composed woman of every
day. It was characteristic of a Trojan that the more agitated outside
circumstances became the quieter he or she became. Harry was Trojan in
this, and, as was customary with him, he put aside his own worries and
dealt entirely with the matter in hand.

Already, over the house, a change was evident. In the absolute
stillness there could be felt the presence of a crisis, and the
monotonous flap of a blind against some distant window sounded clearly
down the passages.

In Sir Jeremy's room there was perfect stillness. The two doctors had
gone downstairs and the nurse was alone. "He asked for you, sir," she
whispered; "he is unconscious again now."

Harry sat down by the bed and waited. The air was heavy with scents of
medicine, and the drawn blinds flung grey, ghost-like shadows over the
bed. The old man seemed scarcely changed. The light had gone from his
eyes and his hand lay motionless on the sheets, and his lips moved
continually in a never-ceasing murmur.

Suddenly he turned and his eyes opened. The nurse moved forward.
"Where's Harry?" He waved his arm feebly in the air.

"I'm here, father," Harry said quietly.

"Ah, that's good"--he sank back on the pillows again. "I'm going to
die, you know, and I'm lonely. It's damned gloomy--got to die--don't
want to--but got to."

He felt for his son's hand, found it, and held it. Then he passed off
again into half-conscious sleep, and Harry watched, his hand in his
father's and his thoughts with the girl and the boy who had rejected
him rather than with the old man who had accepted him.

CHAPTER XIII

Meanwhile there was Robin--and he had been spending several very
unhappy days. In the gloom of his room, alone and depressed, he had
been passing things in review. He had never hitherto felt any very
burning desire to know how he stood with the world; at school and
Cambridge he had not thought at all--he had just, as it were, slid into
things; his surroundings ha