"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?"