“He got me for nothing, but he thought I was dear at any price. It was mostly my hair, I think: it had a most irritating effect upon him. Goodness knows, it’s burden enough to carry a flame-coloured head through life, without one’s uncles objecting to it. I thought it should make me an object of sympathy, but Uncle Donald seemed to fancy that the sympathy should be given to him!”
Mrs. Lane chuckled delightedly.
“Then you didn’t get on very well?”
“Well—not exactly,” said Robin, demurely. “We disapproved of each other. I could have put up with that, but I couldn’t stand the way he used to speak to Mother. He really wasn’t a nice old man, Mrs. Lane. You would have said so yourself!”
“He doesn’t sound nice,” said Mrs. Lane. “But I like his house. Don’t you and your mother find it very lonely, though? I can imagine being happy here for a few weeks—but to live here! I should want more civilization and fewer cows!”
“Oh, we’re never lonely. There is too much to do, and we’re so glad to be together. You see, I was away at school for two years, and we both hated that.” She jumped up, suddenly, as her mother appeared, bearing a tray. “Mother, you ought to have called me to carry that!”
“I thought you were in the garden—but I’m very glad to find you sitting down,” said Mrs. Hurst, smiling at her. “Just a cup of eleven o’clock tea, Mrs. Lane. I hope Robin has been looking after you.”
“Excellently—and I have been shamelessly keeping her from her work. But she begins so early!”
“Indeed she does—too early. I was just going to call you in for your tea, Robin.”
“Do have it out here with me,” begged Mrs. Lane.