Well, he must speak to them and ask them what was to be done, and the sooner it was over the better. He put the Beddoes back into the shelf, and went to the windows. It was already dark; light twinkled in the bay, and a line of white breakers flashed and vanished, keeping time, it seemed, with the changing gleam of the lighthouse far out to sea. His own room was dark, save for the glow of the fire. They would be at tea; probably his father would not be there--the present would be a good time to choose. He pulled his courage together and went downstairs. As he had expected, Garrett was having tea with Clare in her own room--the Castle of Intimacy, as Randal had once called it. Garrett was reading; Clare was sitting by the fire, thinking. "She will soon have more to think about," thought Robin wretchedly. She looked up as he came in. "Ah, Robin, that's splendid! I was just going to send up for you. Come and sit here and talk to me. I've hardly seen you to-day." She had been very affectionate during the last three days--rather too affectionate, Robin thought. He liked her better when she was less demonstrative. "Where have you been all the afternoon?" "In my room. I've been busy." "Tea? You don't mind it strong, do you, because it's been here a good long time? Gingerbread cake especially for you." But gingerbread cake wasn't in the least attractive. Beddoes suited him much better:-- Is that the wind dying? Oh no; It's only two devils, that blow Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, In the ghost's moonshine. "Do you know Beddoes, aunt?" "No, dear. What kind of thing is it? Poetry?" "Yes. You wouldn't like it, though----only I've been reading him this afternoon. He suited my mood." "Boys of your age shouldn't have moods." This from Garrett. "I never had." Robin took his tea without answering, and sat down on the opposite side of the fire to his aunt. How was he to begin? What was he to say? There followed an awful pause--life seemed to have been full of pauses lately. Clare was watching him anxiously. How had his father's outbreak affected him? She was afraid, from little things that she had seen, that he had been influenced. Harry had been so different those last three days--she could not understand it. She watched him eagerly, hungrily. Why was he not still the baby that she could take on her knees and kiss and sentimentalise over? He, too, she fancied, had been different during these last days. "More tea, Robin? You'd better--it's a long while before dinner." "No, thanks, aunt. I--that is--well, I've something I wanted to say."