And Priscilla came year after year, still loving, still protesting that she would never marry. Yet they were glad when even Priscilla had gone and left them to each other. Only each other, year after year the same. V Priscilla’s last visit was followed by another passionate vow that she would never marry. Then within three weeks she wrote again, telling of her engagement to Robin Lethbridge. “... I haven’t known him very long, and Mamma says it’s too soon; but he makes me feel as if I had known him all my life. I know I said I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know it would be so different. I couldn’t have believed that anybody could be so happy. You won’t mind, Hatty. We can love each other just the same....” Incredible that Priscilla, who could be so beaten down and crushed by suffering, should have risen to such an ecstasy. Her letters had a swinging lilt, a hurried beat, like a song bursting, a heart beating for joy too fast. It would have to be a long engagement. Robin was in a provincial bank, he had his way to make. Then, a year later, Prissy wrote and told them that Robin had got a post in Parson’s Bank in the City. He didn’t know a soul in London. Would they be kind to him and let him come to them sometimes, on Saturdays and Sundays? He came one Sunday. Harriett had wondered what he would be like, and he was tall, slender-waisted, wide-shouldered; he had a square, very white forehead; his brown hair was parted on one side, half curling at the tips above his ears. His eyes--thin, black crystal, shining, turning, showing speckles of brown and gray; perfectly set under straight eyebrows laid very black on the white skin. His round, pouting chin had a dent in it. The face in between was thin and irregular; the nose straight and serious and rather long in profile, with a dip and a rise at three-quarters; in full face straight again but shortened. His eyes had another meaning, deeper and steadier than his fine slender mouth; but it was the mouth that made you look at him. One arch of the bow was higher than the other; now and then it quivered with an uneven, sensitive movement of its own. She noticed his mouth’s little dragging droop at the corners and thought: “Oh, you’re cross. If you’re cross with Prissie--if you make her unhappy”--but when he caught her looking at him the cross lips drew back in a sudden, white, confiding smile. And when he spoke she understood why he had been irresistible to Priscilla. He had come three Sundays now, four perhaps; she had lost count. They were all sitting out on the lawn under the cedar. Suddenly, as if he had only just thought of it, he said: “It’s extraordinarily good of you to have me.” “Oh, well,” her mother said, “Prissie is Hatty’s greatest friend.” “I supposed that was why you do it.” He didn’t want it to be that. He wanted it to be himself. Himself. He was proud. He didn’t like to owe anything to other people, not even to Prissie.