And at the end of the way there was always the princess—a princess that lived and moved, and yet, he thought, was not wholly awake—at least not to the reality of his devotion to her, or, being so, did not care, save to test it at unseemly times and in unusual ways. Frank was quite sure that he loved Constance. He was certain that he had never cared so much for anything in the world before, and that if there was a real need he would make any sacrifice at her command. Only he did not quite comprehend why she was not willing to put by all stress and effort to become simply a part of this luminous summer time, when to him it was so good to rest by the brook and listen to her voice following some old tale, or to drift in a boat about the lake shore, finding a quaint interest in odd nooks and romantic corners or in dreaming idle dreams.
Indeed, the Lodge saw him little. Most days he did not appear between breakfast and dinner time. Often he did not return even for that function. Yet sometimes it happened that with Constance he brought up there about mail time, and on these occasions they were likely to remain for luncheon. Constance had by no means given up her nature study, and these visits usually resulted from the discovery of some especial delicacy of the woods which, out of consideration for her mother's nervous views on the subject, was brought to the Lodge for preparation. Edith Morrison generally superintended in person this particular cookery, Constance often assisting—or "hindering," as she called it—and in this way the two had become much better acquainted. Of late Edith had well-nigh banished—indeed, she had almost forgotten—her heart uneasiness of those earlier days. She had quite convinced herself that she had been mistaken, after all. Frank and Constance were together almost continually, while Robin, during the brief stay between each coming and going, had been just as in the old time—natural, kind and full of plans for the future. Only once had he referred more than casually to Constance Deane.
"I wish you two could see more of each other," he had said. "Some day we may be in New York, you and I, and I am sure she would be friendly to us."
And Edith, forgetting all her uneasiness, had replied:
"I wish we might"; and added, "of course, I do see her a good deal—one way and another. She comes quite often with Mr. Weatherby, but then I have the household and she has Mr. Weatherby. Do you think, Robin, she is going to marry him?"
Robin paused a little before replying.
"I don't know. I think he tries her a good deal. He is rich and rather spoiled, you know. Perhaps he has become indifferent to a good many of the things she thinks necessary."
Edith did not reflect at the moment that this knowledge on Robin's part implied confidential relations with one of the two principals. Robin's knowledge was so wide and varied it was never her habit to question its source.
"She would rather have him poor and ambitious, I suppose," she speculated thoughtfully. Then her hand crept over into his broad palm, and, looking up, she added: "Do you know, Robin, that for a few days—the first few days after she came—when you were with her a good deal—I almost imagined—of course, I was very foolish—but she is so beautiful and—superior, like you—and somehow you seemed different toward her, too—I imagined, just a little, that you might care for her, and I don't know—perhaps I was just the least bit jealous. I never was jealous before—maybe I wasn't then—but I felt a heavy, hopeless feeling coming around my heart. Is that jealousy?"
His strong arm was about her and her face hidden on his shoulder. Then she thought that he was laughing—she did not quite see why—but he held her close. She thought it must all be very absurd or he would not laugh. Presently he said: