For once Garrett seemed practical; he was pleased with himself for being so. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was the only person who could really deal with the situation. Clare was a woman, Harry was out of the question, Robin was a boy.
"Have you spoken to your father?" he asked.
"No. Of course not!" Robin answered, rather fiercely. "How could I?"
Clare went back to her chair. "That girl! But, Robin, she's plain—quite—and her manners, her mother—everything impossible!"
It was still incredible that Robin, the work of her hands as it were, into whom she had poured all things that were lovely and of good report, could have made love to an ordinary girl of the middle classes—a vulgar girl with a still more vulgar mother.
But in spite of her vulgarity she was jealous of her. "You don't care for her any longer, Robin?"
"Now?—oh no—not for a long time—I don't think I ever did really. I can't think how I was ever such a fool."
"She still threatens Breach of Promise," said Garrett, whose mind was slowly working as to the best means of proving his practical utility. "That's the point, of course. That the letters are there and that we have got to get them back. What kind of letters were they? Did you actually give her hopes?"
Robin blushed. "Yes, I'm afraid I did—as well as I can remember, and judging by her answers. I said the usual sort of things——" He paused. It was best, he felt, to leave it vague.
But Clare had scarcely arrived at the danger of it yet—the danger to the House. Her present thought was of Robin; that she must alter her feelings about him, take him from his pedestal—a Trojan who could make love to any kind of girl!