“Is she awake, Miss Andrews?” he said, looking greatly edified by Andrews’ astonished countenance.
“What on earth—?” began Andrews.
“If she is,” Jennings winked humorously, “she’s to be dressed up and taken down to the drawing-room to be shown off. I don’t know whether it’s Coombe’s idea or not. He’s there.”
Robin’s eyes flew wide open. She forgot to keep them shut. She was to go downstairs! Who wanted her—who?
Andrews had quite gasped.
“Here’s a new break out!” she exclaimed. “I never heard such a thing in my life. She’s been in bed over two hours. I’d like to know—”
She paused here because her glance at the bed met the dark liquidity of eyes wide open. She got up and walked across the room.
“You are awake!” she said. “You look as if you hadn’t been asleep at all. You’re to get up and have your frock put on. The Lady Downstairs wants you in the drawing-room.”
Two months earlier such a piece of information would have awakened in the child a delirium of delight. But now her vitality was lowered because her previously unawakened little soul had soared so high and been so dashed down to cruel earth again. The brilliancy of the Lady Downstairs had been dimmed as a candle is dimmed by the light of the sun.
She felt only a vague wonder as she did as Andrews told her—wonder at the strangeness of getting up to be dressed, as it seemed to her, in the middle of the night.