“I was named from the memory of it,” said Robinette, trailing her hand through the clear water. “Mother took nothing to America with her but my father’s love (there was so much of that, it made up for all she left behind), so the picture was thousands of miles away when I was born. Mother told me that when I was first put into her arms she thought suddenly, as she saw my dark head, ‘Here is my own Robinetta, in place of 81 the one I left behind,’ and fell asleep straight away, full of joy and content.”
“And they shortened the name to Robinette?”
“I was christened properly enough,” she answered. “It was the world that clipped my name’s little wings; the world refuses to take me seriously; I can’t think why, I’m sure; I never regarded it as a joke.”
“A joke,” said Lavendar reflectively; “it’s a sort of grim one at times; and yet it’s funny too,” he said, suddenly raising his eyes.
“Now that’s the odd thing I was thinking as I looked at you just now,” Robinette said frankly. “You seem so deadly solemn until you look up and laugh––and then you do laugh, you know. That’s the French grandmother again! It was nice in her to marry your grandfather! It helped a lot!”
He laughed then certainly, and so did she, and then pointed out to him that they were being slowly drifted out of their 82 course, and that if he meant to get across to the landing-stage he must row a little harder.
“I have met American women casually;” he said, bending to his oars, “but I have never known one well.”
“It’s rather too bad to disturb the tranquillity of your impressions,” returned Mrs. Loring composedly.
Lavendar looked up with another twinkle. She seemed to provoke twinkles; he did not realize he had so many in stock.
“You mean American women are not painted in quite the right colours?”