The Duchess had much work for her to do and was glad to see that the girl looked well and untired. When she was at home in Eaton Square her grace was even more strict about the walks and country holidays than she had been when she was away.
"Health and strength were never so much needed," she said. "We must keep our bodies in readiness for any test or strain."
This notwithstanding, there was at last a morning when Robin looked as though she had not slept well. It was so unusual a thing that the Duchess spoke of it.
"I hope you have not been sitting up late at your work?" she said.
"No. Thank you," Robin answered. "I went to bed last night at ten o'clock."
The Duchess looked at her seriously. Never before had she seen her with eyes whose misted heaviness suggested tears. Was it possible that there seemed something at once strained and quivering about her mouth—as if she were making an effort to force the muscles to hold it still.
"I hope you would tell me if you had a headache. You must, you know, my dear."
Robin's slight movement nearer to her had the air of being almost involuntary—as if it were impelled by an uncontrollable yearning to be a little near something—some one. The strained and quivering look was even more noticeable and her lifted eyes singularly expressed something she was trying to hold back.
"Thank you—indeed!" she said. "But it isn't headache. It is—things I could not help thinking about in the night."