are had very little trouble, and this morning she was able to
finish her duties speedily, and devote her whole attention to the
crisis that threatened the family.

She decided to see Garrett, and made her way to his room. He was
writing, and seemed disturbed by her entry. He had been working for
some years on a book to be entitled, "Our Aristocracy: its Threatened
Supremacy." He was still engaged on the preliminary chapter, "Some
aspects of historical aristocracy," and it had developed into a
somewhat minute account of Trojan past history. He had no expectations
of ever concluding the work, but it gave him a pleasant sense of
importance and seemed in some vague way to be of value to the Trojan
family.

He was always happy when at work, although he effected very little;
but, after all, the great stylists always worked slowly. His style
was, it is true, somewhat commonplace; but his rather minute output
allowed him to rank, in his own estimation, with Pater and Omar
Khayyam, and disdain the voluminous facility of Thackeray and Dickens.
He was, he felt, one of the "precious" writers, and so long as no one
saw his work he was able both to comfort himself and to impress others
with the illusion.

It was said vaguely in Pendragon that "Garrett Trojan was a clever
fellow--was writing a book--said to be brilliant, of great promise--no,
he hadn't seen it, but----" etc.

So Garrett looked at his sister a little resentfully.

"I hope it's important, Clare," he said, "because--well, you know, the
morning's one's time for work, and once one gets off the track it's
difficult to get back; not that I've done much, you know, only half a
page--but this kind of thing can't move quickly."

"I'm sorry, Garrie," she answered, "but you've got to talk to me.
There are things about which I want your advice."

She did not really want it; she had decided on her line of conduct, and
nothing that he could say would alter her decision--but it flattered
him, and she needed his help.

"Well, of course," he said, pushing his chair back and coming to the
fire, "if it's anything I can do-- What is it, Clare? Household or
something in the town?"

"Oh, nothing," she laughed at him. "Don't be worried, Garrie; I know
it's horrid to disturb you, and there's really nothing--only--well,
after all, there is only us, isn't there? for acting together I
mean--and I want to know what line you're going on."

"Oh! about Harry?" He looked at her