"Robin, my dear, what's the matter?" she said. "Is there something that's troubling you?"
Again Robin was silent for a space. His eyes fell dully to the ground between his feet. At last, in a tone of muttered challenge, he spoke. "Don't want it to get better. Want it to end."
"Sakes alive!" said Mrs. Rickett, shocked. "You don't know what you're saying."
He did not contradict her or lift his eyes again, merely sat there like a hunched baboon, his head on his chest, his monstrous body slowly rocking.
There followed a lengthy silence. Mrs. Rickett ironed and folded, ironed and folded, with a practised hand, still keeping an eye on the small chicken-chaser outside.
After several minutes, however, the boy's utter dejection of attitude moved her to attempt to divert his thoughts. "I wonder when our young lady will be coming to see us again," she said.
Robin uttered a queer sound in his throat; it was almost like the moan of an animal in pain. He said nothing.
She gave him an uneasy glance, but still kind-heartedly she persevered in her effort to lift him out of his depression. "She was always very friendly-like," she said. "You liked her, didn't you Robin?"
Robin shifted his position with a sharp movement as though he winced at some sudden dart of pain. "What should make her come back?" he said. "She'll stay away now she's gone."
"Oh, I expect we shall be seeing her again some day," said Mrs. Rickett, "when poor Mrs. Fielding is a bit stronger. She's busy now, but she'll come back, you'll see."