His tone was absolutely quiet, but something in his utterance or the sigh that preceded it—or possibly some swiftly-piercing light of intuition—seemed to send a galvanizing current through Robin. With clumsy impulsiveness he came to Dick and stood before him.
"I was going—to get you—something to eat," he said, speaking with tremendous effort. "You must be—pretty near starving—and I forgot." He paused to fling a nervous look upwards. "I thought you were asleep. I didn't know—or I wouldn't have done it. I—didn't mean to get in the way." His voice broke oddly. He began to tremble. "I'll go now," he said.
But Dick's hand came out, detaining him. "You came down to get me food?" he said.
"Yes," muttered Robin, with his head down. "Thought I'd—put it in the hall—so you'd find it—before you came up."
Dick stood silent for a space, looking at him. His eyes were very gentle and the grimness had gone from his mouth, but Robin could not see that. He stood humped and quivering, expectant of rebuke.
But he recognized the change when Dick spoke. "Thought you'd provide me with the necessary strength to hammer you, eh?" he said, and suddenly his arm went round the misshapen shoulders; he gave Robin a close squeeze. "Thanks, old chap," he said.
Robin looked up then. The adoring devotion of a dumb animal was in his eyes. He said nothing, being for the moment beyond words.
Dick let him go. A clock on the mantelpiece was striking twelve. "You get to bed, boy!" he said. "I don't want anything to eat, thanks all the same." He paused a moment, then held out his hand. "Good-night!"
It was tacit forgiveness for his offence, and as such Robin recognized it. Yet as he felt the kindly grasp his eyes filled with tears.
"I'm—I'm sorry, Dicky," he stammered.