Though she was not yet seven, life had so changed for her that it was a far cry back to the Spring days in the Square Gardens. She went back, however, back into that remote ecstatic past.
“The Lady Downstairs is not—alike,” she said at last, “Donal’s mother loved him. She let him sit in the same chair with her and read in picture books. She kissed him when he was in bed.”
Jennings, the young footman who was a humourist, had, of course, heard witty references to Robin’s love affair while in attendance, and he had equally, of course, repeated them below stairs. Therefore,
Dowson had heard vague rumours but had tactfully refrained from mentioning the subject to her charge.
“Who was Donal?” she said now, but quite quietly. Robin did not know that a confidante would have made her first agony easier to bear. She was not really being confidential now, but, realizing Dowson’s comfortable kindliness, she knew that it would be safe to speak to her.
“He was a big boy,” she answered keeping her eyes on Dowson’s face. “He laughed and ran and jumped. His eyes—” she stopped there because she could not explain what she had wanted to say about these joyous young eyes, which were the first friendly human ones she had known.
“He lives in Scotland,” she began again. “His mother loved him. He kissed me. He went away. Lord Coombe sent him.”
Dawson could not help her start.
“Lord Coombe!” she exclaimed.
Robin came close to her and ground her little fist into her knee, until its plumpness felt almost bruised.