It appeared that matters were not yet as wholly decided as Mrs. Manners had thought.  Indeed, it seemed to her that they were not decided at all.  Robin had written to Dr. Allen, and had found means to convey his letter to Mr. Simpson, who, in his turn, had undertaken to forward it at least as far as to London; and there it would await a messenger to Douay.  It might be a month before it would reach Douay, and it might be three or four months, or even more, before an answer could come back.  Next, the squire had taken a course of action which, plainly, had disconcerted the lad, though it had its conveniences too.  For, instead of increasing the old man’s fury, the news his son had given him had had a contrary effect.  He had seemed all shaken, said Robin; he had spoken to him quietly, holding in the anger that surely must be there, the boy thought, without difficulty.  And the upshot of it was that no more had been said as to Robin’s leaving Matstead for the present—­not one word even about the fines.  It seemed almost as if the old man had been trying how far he could push his son, and had recoiled when he had learned the effect of his pushing.

“I think he is frightened,” said the lad gravely.  “He had never thought that I could be a priest.”

Mrs. Manners considered this in silence.

“And it may be autumn before Dr. Allen’s letter comes back?” she asked presently.

Robin said that that was so.

“It may even be till winter,” he said.  “The talk among the priests, Mr. Simpson tells me, is all about the removal from Douay.  It may be made at any time, and who knows where they will go?”

Mrs. Manners glanced across at her daughter, who sat motionless, with her hands clasped.  Then she was filled with the spirit of reasonableness and sense:  all this tragic to-do about what might never happen seemed to her the height of folly.

“Nay, then,” she burst out, “then nothing may happen after all.  Dr. Allen may say ‘No;’ the letter may never get to him.  It may be that you will forget all this in a month or two.”

Robin turned his face slowly towards her, and she saw that she had spoken at random.  Again, too, it struck her attention that his manner seemed a little changed.  It was graver than that to which she was accustomed.

“I shall not forget it,” he said softly.  “And Dr. Allen will get the letter.  Or, if not he, someone else.”

There was silence again, but Mrs. Manners heard her daughter draw a long breath.

III

It was an hour later that Marjorie found herself able to say that which she knew must be said.

Robin had lingered on, talking of this and that, though he had said half a dozen times that he must be getting homewards; and at last, when he rose, Mistress Manners, who was still wholly misconceiving the situation, after the manner of sensible middle-aged folk, archly and tactfully took her leave and disappeared down towards the house, advancing some domestic reason for her departure.