“Oh, I am sorry,” she murmured, “I must see her,” lifting her eyes to Robin. “It is an old friend merely passing through London. How wicked of me to forget that she wrote to say that she might dash in at any hour.”
“Please!” pled Robin, prettily. “I can run away at once. Fräulein Hirsch must have come back. Please—”
“The lady asked me particularly to say that she has only a few minutes to stay, as she is catching a train,” the footman decorously ventured.
“If that is the case,” Lady Etynge said, even relievedly, “I will leave you here to look at things until I come back. I really want to talk to you a little more about yourself and Hélène. I can’t let you go.” She looked back from the door before she passed through it. “Amuse yourself, my dear,” and then she added hastily to the man.
“Have you remembered that there was something wrong with the latch, William? See if it needs a locksmith.”
“Very good, my lady.”
She was gone and Robin stood by the sofa thrilled with happiness and relief. How wonderful it was that, through mere lucky chance, she had gone to watch the children sailing their boats! And that Fräulein Hirsch had seen Lady Etynge! What good luck and how grateful she was! The thought which passed through her mind was like a little prayer of thanks. How strange it would be to be really intimate with a girl like herself—or rather like Hélène. It made her heart beat to think of it. How wonderful it would be if Hélène actually loved her, and she loved Hélène. Something sprang out of some depths of her being where past things were hidden. The something was a deadly little memory. Donal! Donal! It would be—if she loved Hélène and Hélène loved her—as new a revelation as Donal. Oh! she remembered.
She heard the footman doing something to the latch of the door, which caused it to make a clicking sound. He was obeying orders and examining it. As she involuntarily glanced at him, he—bending over the door handle—raised his eyes sideways and glanced at her. It was an inexcusable glance from a domestic, because it was actually as if he were taking the liberty of privately summing her up—taking her points in for his own entertainment. She so resented the unprofessional bad manners of it, that she turned away and sauntered into the Dresden blue and white library and sat down with a book.
She was quite relieved, when, only a few minutes later, he went away having evidently done what he could.
The book she had picked up was a new novel and opened with an attention-arresting agreeableness, which led her on. In fact it led her on further and, for a longer time than she was aware of. It was her way to become wholly absorbed in books when they allured her; she forgot her surroundings and forgot the passing of time. This was a new book by a strong man with the gift which makes alive people, places, things. The ones whose lives had taken possession of his being in this story were throbbing with vital truth.