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 and drew himself up. "Now I warn you, Miss Feverel," he said, "that this is no laughing matter. You are doing a very foolish thing in keeping the letters--very foolish--ah! um! You must, of course, see that--exceedingly foolish!" He came to a pause. It was really rather difficult to know what to say next. "Ah, Mr. Trojan," she answered, "you must leave me to judge about the foolishness of it. After all, they are my letters." "Pure waste of time," he answered, his voice getting a little shrill. "After all, there can be no question about it. We _must_ have the letters--we are ready to go to some lengths to obtain them--even--ah, um--money----" "Now, Mr. Trojan," she said quickly, "you are scarcely polite. But I am sure that you will see no reason for prolonging this interview when I say that, under no circumstances whatever, can I return the letters. That is my unchanging decision." He had no words; he stared at her, dumb with astonishment. This open defiance was the very last thing that he had expected. Then, at last--