"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."
He turned round in his chair and faced the fire. He would rather not look at her whilst he was speaking. Garrett put down his book and looked up. Was there going to be more worry? What had happened lately to the world? It seemed to have lost all proper respect for the Trojan position. He could not understand it. Clare drew her breath sharply. Her fears thronged about her, like shadows in the firelight—what was it? ... Was it Harry?
"What about, Robin? Is anything the matter?"
"Why, no—nothing really—it's only—that is—Oh, dash it all—it's awfully difficult."