“Be pretty mannered, Miss Robin, my dear, and shake hands with his lordship.”
Each person in the little drawing-room saw the queer flame in the child-face—Coombe himself was fantastically struck by the sudden thought that its expression might have been that of an obstinate young martyr staring at the stake. Robin shrilled out her words:
“Andrews will pinch me—Andrews will pinch me! But—No!—No!” and she kept her hand behind her back.
“Oh, Miss Robin, you naughty child!” cried Andrews, with pathos. “Your poor Andrews that takes such care of you!”
“Horrid little thing!” Feather pettishly exclaimed. “Take her upstairs, Andrews. She shall not come down again.”
Harrowby, settling his pince nez a little excitedly in the spurred novelty of his interest, murmured,
“If she doesn’t want to go, she will begin to shriek. This looks as if she were a little termagant.”
But she did not shriek when Andrews led her towards the door. The ugly one with the wicked face was the one who had done it. He filled her with horror. To have touched him would have been like touching some wild beast of prey. That was all. She went with Andrews quite quietly.
“Will you shake hands with me?” said the Starling, goodnaturedly, as she passed, “I hope she won’t snub me,” she dropped aside to Harrowby.
Robin put out her hand prettily.