Over coffee in the drawing-room, Coombe joined them. He had not known of the little dinner and arrived just as Feather was on the point of beginning her story.
“You are just in time,” she greeted him, “I was going to tell them something to make them laugh.”
“Will it make me laugh?” he inquired.
“It ought to. Robin is in love. She is five years old and she has been deserted, and Andrews came to tell me that she can neither eat nor sleep. The doctor says she has had a shock.”
Coombe did not join in the ripple of amused laughter but, as he took his cup of coffee, he looked interested.
Harrowby was interested too. His dark eyes quite gleamed.
“I suppose she is in bed by now,” he said. “If it were not so late, I should beg you to have her brought down so that we might have a look at her. I’m by way of taking a psychological interest.”
“I’m psychological myself,” said the Starling. “But what do you mean, Feather? Are you in earnest?”
“Andrews is,” Feather answered. “She could manage measles but she could not be responsible for shock. But she didn’t find out about the love affair. I found that out—by mere chance. Do you remember the day we got out of the victoria and went into the Gardens, Starling?”
“The time you spoke to Mrs. Muir?”