"This," said Mrs. Feverel, "is my daughter, Mr. Trojan. My dear, Mr. Henry Trojan."
She bowed and sat down opposite her mother. He thought she looked rather pathetic as she faced him; here was no adventuress, no schemer. He began to feel that his son had behaved brutally, outrageously.
Mrs. Feverel rose. "I will leave you, my dear. Mr. Trojan will tell you for what he has come."
She moved slowly from the room and Harry drew a breath of relief at her absence. There was a moment's pause. "I hope you will forgive me, Miss Feverel," he said gently. "I'm afraid that both your mother and yourself must regard this as impertinent, but, at the same time, I think you will understand."
She seemed to have regained her composure. "It is about Robin, I suppose?"
"Yes. Could you tell me exactly what the relations between you were?"
"We were engaged," she answered simply, "last summer at Cambridge. He broke off the engagement."
"Yes—but I understand that you intend to keep his letters?"
"That is quite true."
"I have come to ask you to restore them."