Robin | Page 2

lifted her eyes to
him. But he had not talked to her for fifteen minutes before he knew
that there was no real reason why he should ever again lose his colour
at the sight of her. He had thought, at first, there was.
This was the beginning of an acquaintance which gave rise to much
argument over tea-cups regarding the degree of Coombe's interest in
her. Remained, however, the fact that he managed to see a great deal of
her. Feather was guilelessly doubtless concerning him. She was quite
sure that he was in love with her, and very practically aware that the
more men of the class of the Head of the House of Coombe who came
in and out of the slice of a house, the more likely the dwellers in it were
to get good invitations and continued credit.
The realisation of these benefits was cut short. Robert, amazingly and
unnaturally, failed her by dying. He was sent away in a hearse and the

tiny house ceased to represent hilarious little parties.
Bills were piled high everywhere. The rent was long overdue and must
be paid. She had no money to pay it, none to pay the servants' wages.
"It's awful--it's awful--it's awful!" broke out between her sobs.
From her bedroom window--at evening--she watched "Cook," the smart
footman, the nurse, the maids, climb into four-wheelers and be driven
away.
"They're gone--all of them!" she gasped. "There's no one left in the
house. It's empty!"
Then was Feather seized with a panic. She had something like hysterics,
falling face downward upon the carpet and clutching her hair until it
fell down. She was not a person to be judged--she was one of the
unexplained incidents of existence.
The night drew in more closely. A prolonged wailing shriek tore
through the utter soundlessness of the house. It came from the
night-nursery. It was Robin who had wakened and was screaming.
"I--I won't!" Feather protested, with chattering teeth. "I won't! I won't!"
She had never done anything for the child since its birth. To reach her
now, she would be obliged to go out into the dark--past Robert's
bedroom--the room.
"I--I couldn't--even if I wanted to!" she quaked. "I daren't! I daren't! I
wouldn't do it--for a million pounds!"
The screams took on a more determined note. She flung herself on her
bed, burrowing her head under the coverings and pillows she dragged
over her ears to shut out the sounds.
* * * * *
Feather herself had not known, nor in fact had any other human being

known why Lord Coombe drifted into seeming rather to follow her
about. But there existed a reason, and this it was, and this alone, which
caused him to appear--the apotheosis of exquisite fitness in form--at her
door.
He listened while she poured it all forth, sobbing. Her pretty hair
loosened itself and fell about her in wild but enchanting disorder.
"I would do anything--any one asked me, if they would take care of
me."
A shuddering knowledge that it was quite true that she would do
anything for any man who would take care of her produced an effect on
him nothing else would have produced.
"Do I understand," he said, "that you are willing that I should arrange
this for you?"
"Do you mean--really?" she faltered. "Will you--will you--?"
Her uplifted eyes were like a young angel's brimming with crystal
drops which slipped--as a child's tears slip--down her cheeks.
* * * * *
The florist came and refilled the window-boxes of the slice of a house
with an admirable arrangement of fresh flowers. It became an
established fact that the household had not fallen to pieces, and its
frequenters gradually returned to it, wearing, indeed, the air of people
who had never really remained away from it.
As a bird in captivity lives in its cage and, perhaps, believes it to be the
world, Robin lived in her nursery. She was put to bed and taken up, she
was fed and dressed in it, and once a day she was taken out of it
downstairs and into the street. That was all.
It is a somewhat portentous thing to realise that a newborn human
creature can only know what it is taught. To Robin the Lady

Downstairs was merely a radiant and beautiful being of whom one
might catch a glimpse through a door, or if one pressed one's face
against the window pane at the right moment. On the very rare
occasions when the Lady appeared on the threshold of the day-nursery,
Robin stood and stared with immense startled eyes and answered in a
whisper the banal little questions put to her.
So she remained unaware of mothers and unaware of affection. She
never played with other children. Andrews, her