The little parlour looked a haven of comfort to Robert Barton's eyes as he entered it that afternoon, leaning on Dr. Luttrell's arm.
Olivia was sitting at needlework as usual, with Dot playing at her feet, and sprawling on the rug in exact imitation of Jet the black kitten; she rose at once with a bright, welcoming smile, and arranged the cushions in the easy-chair.
"I daresay you are glad to be down again," she said, kindly, as Barton sank back in them rather heavily; "but you must be careful, you are far from strong yet."
"Thanks, I am tolerably fit," but the weak, shaking hand rather contradicted this.
"Oh, what a pretty child! I should like to make a sketch of her. Will you come to me, little one?" And Robert Barton's smile was so winning that Dot crawled to him at once, and hauled herself up by the help of one finger.
Olivia gave her husband a quick glance which he quite understood; "there cannot be much harm in him if he likes children," this was what her look meant, and even Marcus was touched and surprised when he saw his little daughter put up her round face to be kissed, and then make playful dabs at him.
"What a darling she is—rather like you, Mrs. Luttrell, but she has a look of the doctor too. I have always been fond of children, they are never afraid of me," and this speech completely won the young mother's heart.
"He is really very distinguished-looking," she said to herself, as she watched him playing with Dot; "he is dreadfully thin, and, of course, Uncle Fergus's clothes are too big for him, but no one could help seeing that he is a gentleman."
They began to talk presently in quite a friendly way, and after a time Olivia said, quite simply:
"Your name is not really Robert Barton, is it?" She had blurted this out almost without thinking.