My lady studied his profile, and when he turned, feeling her gaze upon him, nodded and said: “Du vrai, my child, I like you best as a man. I do not think anyone will ever know you for the bold Miss Merriot.”
“You don’t, ma’am?” Robin glanced towards the mirror.
“No, never. I do not know what makes the so great change.” She pondered it. “Miss Merriot was a fair height for a lady, but Master Robin — oh, we must not call him a little man, of course!”
“You spare my feelings, in fact. It may be the neck-cloth, and the hair drawn back. I was careful always to affect a degage style as Miss Merriot.”
“Well,” said my lady slowly. “Miss Merriot was a dainty piece, but you, my child — you look to be all muscle and — je ne sais quoi.”
“I have my fair share of muscle, ma’am, I believe,” Robin said modestly.
But my lady was right. With her petticoats he cast off all Miss Merriot’s mannerisms. Kate had a tripping step: Robin a clean, swift stride; Kate was languorous: Robin never; Kate fell into charming attitudes: Robin’s every movement was alert and decisive; Kate could adopt a melting siren’s voice: Robin’s speech was crisp, just as his eye was keen where Kate’s was languishing. The truth was he was a consummate actor, and if he played a part he became that part, heart and soul. My Lady Lowestoft had often marvelled at the perfection of his acting, the rigid attention to every little feminine detail, but she doubted whether she had ever appreciated him fully until now, when he threw off his disguise and all its attendant mannerisms.
She was thinking of this when the sound of horses came to her ear. In another minute or two the wheels stopped by the porch.
Robin peered through the window-pane. “This will be John at last. Oh lord, ma’am, it’s the old gentleman himself!”
Marthe was evidently waiting to let in the travellers, for a few seconds later the door of the boudoir opened, and my Lord Barham walked in, point de vice as ever, in a scarlet riding coat under his cloak, buff small clothes, and high top-boots.