his latch-key. He would
speak to his father to-morrow!

Mary was quite right ... he _was_ a "pretty poor thing!"

CHAPTER XIV

That night was never forgotten by any one at "The Flutes." Down in the
servants' hall they prolonged their departure for bed to a very late
hour, and then crept, timorously, to their rooms; they were extravagant
with the electric light, and dared Benham's anger in order to secure a
little respite from terrible darkness. Stories were recalled of Sir
Jeremy's kindness and good nature, and much speculation was indulged in
as to his successor--the cook recalled her early youth and an
engagement with a soldier that aroused such sympathy in her hearers
that she fraternised, unexpectedly, with Clare's maid--a girl who had
formerly been considered "haughty," but was now found to be agreeable
and pleasant.

Above stairs there was the same restlessness and sense of uneasy
expectancy. Clare went to bed, but not to sleep. Her mind was not
with her father--she had been waiting for his death during many long
weeks, and now that the time had arrived she could scarcely think of it
otherwise than calmly. If one had lived like a Trojan one would die
like one--quietly, becomingly, in accordance with the best traditions.
She was sure that there would be something ready for Trojans in the
next world a little different from other folks' destiny--something
select and refined--so why worry at going to meet it?

No, it was not Sir Jeremy, but Robin. Throughout the night she heard
the clocks striking the quarters; the first light of dawn crept timidly
through the shuttered blinds, the full blaze of the sun streamed on to
her bed--and she could not sleep. The conversation of the day before
recalled itself syllable for syllable; she read into it things that had
never been there and tortured herself with suspicion and doubt. Robin
was different--utterly different. He was different even from a week
ago when he had first told them of the affair. She could hear his
voice as he had bent over her asking her to forgive him; that had
seemed to her then the hour of her triumph--but now she saw that it was
the premonition of defeat. How she had worked for him, loved him,
spoilt him; and now, in these weeks, her lifework was utterly undone.
And then, in the terrible loneliness of her room, with the darkness on
the world and round her bed and at her heart, she wept--terrible,
tearless sobbing that left her in