"She was not good at that sort of thing"--that was exactly it, exactly the summary of his new feeling about his aunt and uncle; they were not able to cope with that hard, new world into which he had been so suddenly flung--they were, he scornfully considered, "tea-table" persons, and in so judging them he condemned himself. "I'm so very sorry, dear. I did my very best. I went to see the--um--Miss Feverel, and we talked about them. But I'm afraid that I couldn't persuade her--she seemed determined----" "What did she say?" "Oh, very little--only that she considered that the letters were hers and that therefore she had every right to keep them if she liked. She seemed to attach some especial, rather sentimental value to them, and considered, apparently, that it would be quite impossible to give them up." "How was she looking--ill?" It had been one of Robin's consolations during these weeks to imagine her pale, wretched, broken down. "Oh no, extremely well. She seemed rather amused at the whole affair. I was not there very long." "And is that all you have done? Have you, I mean, taken any other steps?" "Yes--I wrote yesterday morning. I got an answer this morning." "What was it?" Robin spoke eagerly. Perhaps his aunt had some surprise in store and would produce the letters suddenly; surely Dahlia would not have written unless she had relented. Clare went to her writing-table and returned with the letter, held gingerly between finger and thumb. "I'm afraid it's not very long," she said, laughing nervously, and again looking at Robin appealingly. "I had written asking her to think over what she had said to me the day before. She says: "'DEAR Miss TROJAN--Surely the matter is closed after what happened the other day? I am extremely sorry that you should be troubled by my decision; but it is, I am afraid, unalterable.--Yours truly, D. FEVEREL.'" "Her decision?" cried Robin quickly. "Had she told you anything? Had she decided anything?" "Only that she would keep the letters," answered Clare slowly. "You couldn't expect me, Robin dear, to argue with her about it. One had, after all, one's dignity." "Oh! it's no use!" cried Robin. "She means to use them--of course, it's all plain enough; we've just got to face it, I suppose"; and then, as a forlorn hope, turning to his uncle-- "You've done nothing, I suppose, Uncle Garrett?" His uncle had hitherto taken no part in the discussion, but sat intent on the book that he was reading. Now he answered, without looking up-- "Yes--I saw the girl." "You saw her?" from Clare. "What! Dahlia!" from Robin. "Yes, I called." He laid the book down on his knee and enjoyed the effect of his announcement. He could be important for a moment at any rate, although he must, with his next words, confess failure, so he prolonged the situation. "Some more tea, Clare, please, and not quite so strong this time--you might speak about the tea--why not make it yourself?"