"Yes?" he said, looking up.
"Well, of course, this is scarcely the time. But it is something that can hardly wait, and you can decide about acting yourself——"
She paused. It was the very hardest thing that she had ever had to do, and she would never forget it to the day of her death. But it was harder for Robin; he sat there with flaming cheeks and his head hanging—he could not look at his father.
"It is to do with Robin—" Clare went on; "he was rather afraid to ask you about it himself, because, of course, it is not a business of which he is very proud, and so he has asked me to do it for him. It is a girl—a Miss Feverel—whom he met at Cambridge and to whom he had written letters, letters that gave the young woman some reasons to suppose that he was offering her marriage. He saw the matter more wisely after a time and naturally wished Miss Feverel to restore the letters, but this she refused to do. Both Garrett and myself have done what we could and have, I am afraid, failed. Miss Feverel is quite resolute—most obstinately so. We are afraid that she may take steps that would be unpleasant to all of us—it is rather worrying us, and we thought—it seemed—in short, I determined to ask you to help us. With your wider experience you will probably know the best way in which to deal with such a person."
Clare paused. She had put it as drily as possible, but it was, nevertheless, humiliating.
There was a pause.
"I am scarcely surprised," said Harry, "that Robin is ashamed of the affair."
"Of course he is," answered Clare eagerly, "bitterly ashamed."
"I suppose you made love to—ah—Miss Feverel?" he said, turning directly to Robin.
"Yes," said Robin, lifting his head and facing his father. As their eyes met the colour rushed to his cheeks.