dreamless sleep, grey and formless as sleep of
utter exhaustion always is; then he suddenly woke to the dim twilight
of the room, the orange glow of the dying fire, and the distant
striking of the hour--it was six o'clock!

As he lay back in his chair, dreamily, lazily watching the fire, his
thoughts were of his father. He had not known that he would regret him
so intensely, but he saw now that the old man had meant everything to
him during those first weeks of his return. He thought of him very
tenderly--his prejudices, his weaknesses, his traditions. It was
strange how alike they all were in reality, the Trojans! Sir Jeremy,
Clare, Garrett, Robin, himself, the same bedrock of traditional pride
was there, it was only that circumstances had altered them
superficially. Three weeks ago Clare and he had seemed worlds apart,
now he saw how near they were! But for that very reason, they would
never get on--he saw that quite clearly. They knew too well the weak
spots in each other's armour, and their pride would be for ever at war.

He did not want to turn her out--she had been there for all those years
and it was her home; but he thought that she herself would prefer to
go. There was a charming place in Norfolk, Wrexhall Pogis, that had
been let for years, and there was quite a pleasant little place in
town, 3 Southwick Crescent--yes, she would probably prefer to go, even
had he not meant to marry Mary. The announcement of that little affair
would be something in the nature of a thunderbolt.

It was impossible for him to go--the head of the House must always live
at "The Flutes." But he knew already how much that House was going to
mean to him, and so he guessed how much it must mean to Clare.

And to Robin? What would Robin do? Three weeks ago there could have
been but one answer to that question--he would have followed his aunt.
Now Harry was not so sure. There was this affair of Miss Feverel;
probably Robin would come to him about it and then they would be able
to talk. He had had that very day a letter from Dahlia Feverel. He
looked at it again now; it said:--

"DEAR MR. TROJAN--Mother and I are leaving Pendragon to-morrow--for
ever, I suppose--but before I go I thought that I should like to send
you a little line to thank you for your kindness to me. That sounds
terribly formal, doesn't it? but the gratitude is really there, and
indeed I am no letter-writer.

"You met a girl at the crisis in her