hanged altogether, which only meant that he was,
at last, finding himself.

There hung a gloom over Clare's tea-table, partly, no doubt, because of
Sir Jeremy--the old man with the wrinkled hands and parchment face
seemed to follow one, noiselessly, remorselessly, through every passage
and into every room ... but there was also something else--that tension
always noticeable in a room where people whose recent action towards
some common goal is undeclared are gathered together; they were waiting
for some one else to make the next move.

And it was Robin who made it, asking at once, as he dropped the sugar
into his cup and balanced for a moment the tongs in the air: "Well,
Aunt Clare, what have you done?"

She noticed at once that he asked it a little scornfully, as though
assured beforehand that she had done very little. There was a note of
antagonism in the way that he had spoken, a hint, even, of challenge.
She knew at once that he had changed during the last week, and again,
knowing as she did of her failure with the girl, and guessing perhaps
at its probable sequence, she hated Harry from the bottom of her heart.

"Done? Why, how, Robin dear? I don't advise those tea-cakes--they're
heavy. I must speak to Wilson--she's been a little careless lately;
those biscuits are quite nice. Done, dear?"

"Yes, aunt--about Miss Feverel. No, I don't want anything to eat,
thanks--it seems only an hour or so since lunch--yes--about--well,
those letters?"

Clare looked up at him pleadingly. He was speaking a little like
Harry; she had noticed during the last week that he had several things
in common with his father--little things, the way that he wrinkled his
forehead, pushed back his hair with his hand; she was not sure that it
was not conscious imitation, and indeed it had seemed to her during the
last week that every day drew him further from herself and nearer to
Harry. She had counted on this affair as a means of reclaiming him,
and now she must confess failure--Oh! it was hard!

"Well, Robin, I have tried----" She paused.

"Well?" he said drily, waiting.

"I'm afraid it wasn't much of a success," she said, trying to laugh.
"I suppose that really I'm not good at that sort of thing."

"At what sort of thing?"

He stood over her like a judge, the certainty of her failure the only
thing that he could grasp. He did not recognise her own love for him,
her fear lest he should be angry; he was merciless as he had