He dressed carefully in a suit of delicate grey, wearing, as he did on all public occasions, an eyeglass. He took some time over his preparations and drank a whisky and soda before starting; he had secured the address from Robin, without, he flattered himself, any discovery as to the reason of his request. 10 Seaview Terrace! Ah yes, he knew where that was—a gloomy back street, quite a fitting place for such an affair.
He was still uncertain as to the plan of campaign, but he could not conceive it credible that any young woman in any part of the British Empire would stand up long against a Trojan—it would, he felt certain, prove easy.
He noticed with pleasure the attention paid to him by the down-at-heels servant—it was good augury for the success of the interview. He lowered his voice to a deep bass whilst asking for Miss Feverel, and he fixed his eyeglass at a more strikingly impressive angle. He looked at women from four points of view, and he had, as it were, a sliding scale of manners on which he might mark delicately his perception of their position. There was firstly the Countess, or Titled Nobility. Here his manner was slightly deferential, and at the same time a little familiar—proof of his own good breeding.
Secondly, there was the Trojan, or the lady of Assured Position. Here he was quite familiar, and at the same time just a little patronising—proof of his sense of Trojan superiority.
Thirdly, there was the Governess, or Poor Gentility Position. To members of this class he was affably kind, conveying his sense of their merits and sympathy with their struggle against poverty, but nevertheless marking quite plainly the gulf fixed between him and them.
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.