Robin was not given to strong language, especially to a woman; he opened his mouth and shut it again without speaking. Then a second thought struck him. Perhaps it was better so, though no thanks to Trixie. He caught her by the arm and held her, not too gently.
“You’ll give me your word of honour, Beatrix Helmont,” he said, “that you will stay here, on this spot, till I come back and say you may go?”
“Yes; if I must stay, I will. But you are very rough and unkind, Robin. Why are you angry with me?”
He gave her no answer, but hurried on to the bench. Some instinct had warned Imogen that she was no longer alone. She had sat up, and was trying to look about her composedly. The effort only made her seem the more piteous. Robin’s heart positively swelled as he looked at her, recalling the last, the only time indeed he had ever seen her, and her glad girlish beauty.
She did not start as he came near; she sat still as if stupefied.
“Miss Wentworth,” he said most gently and respectfully, “I am afraid you have had a start or a fright, or—or that you have had bad news. Can I do anything?”
She looked at him and smiled, the strangest smile he had ever seen, and with a thrill of horror he remembered Trixie’s words, “Gone out of her mind.” But in a moment he was relieved of this worst of terrors.
“You are Mr Robin Winchester,” she said. “Yes, thank you. I have had bad news, and I am so dreadfully tired. I want to go home—to go in, I mean; but I am afraid of meeting any one, because, you see—though it is very silly of me—I have been crying. How can I get in without meeting any one?”
“Do you know the way in by the fernery, and the little back-stair up from what used to be the schoolroom?” he asked.
She shook her head. Then he considered for a moment in silence.