Coombe was watching the inner abhorrence in the little face. Robin had put her hand behind her back—she who had never disobeyed since she was born! She had crossed a line of development when she had seen glimpses of the new world through Donal’s eyes.
“What are you doing, you silly little thing,” Feather reproved her. “Shake hands with Lord Coombe.”
Robin shook her head fiercely.
“No! No! No! No!” she protested.
Feather was disgusted. This was not the kind of child to display.
“Rude little thing! Andrews, come and make her do it—or take her upstairs,” she said.
Coombe took his gold coffee cup from the mantel.
“She regards me with marked antipathy, as she did when she first saw me,” he summed the matter up. “Children and animals don’t hate one without reason. It is some remote iniquity in my character which the rest of us have not yet detected.” To Robin he said, “I do not want to shake hands with you if you object. I prefer to drink my coffee out of this beautiful cup.”
But Andrews was seething. Having no conscience whatever, she had instead the pride of a female devil in her perfection in her professional duties. That the child she was responsible for should stamp her with ignominious fourth-ratedness by conducting herself with as small grace as an infant costermonger was more than her special order of flesh and blood could bear—and yet she must outwardly control the flesh and blood.
In obedience to her mistress’ command, she crossed the room and bent down and whispered to Robin. She intended that her countenance should remain non-committal, but, when she lifted her head, she met Coombe’s eyes and realized that perhaps it had not. She added to her whisper nursery instructions in a voice of sugar.