Robin rose from her chair and laid her bit of sewing aside. For a moment he almost expected her to make the little curtsey Mademoiselle had taught her to make when older people came into the schoolroom. She looked so exactly as she had looked before life had touched her. There was very little change in her girlish figure; the child curve of her cheek had returned; the Jacqueminot rose glowed on it and her eyes were liquid wonders of trust. She came to him holding out both hands. "Thank you for coming," she said in her pretty way. "Thank you, Lord Coombe, for coming." "Thank you, my child, for asking me to come," he answered and he feared that his voice was not wholly steady. There was no mystic sign to be seen about her. The only mystery was in her absolutely blooming health and naturalness and in the gentle and clear happiness of her voice and eyes. She was not tired; she was not dragged or anxious looking as he had seen even fortunate young wives and mothers at times. There actually flashed back upon him the morning, months ago, when he had met her in the street and said to himself that she was like a lovely child on her birthday with all her gifts about her. Her radiance had been quiet even then because she was always quiet. She led him to a seat near her window and she sat by him. "I put this chair here for you because it is so lovely to look out at the moor," she said. That moved him to begin with. She had been thinking simply and kindly of him even before he came. He had always been prepared for, waited upon either with flattering attentions or ceremonial service, but the quiet pretty things mothers and sisters and wives did had not been part of his life and he had always noticed and liked them and sometimes wondered that most men received them with a casual air. This small thing alone caused the roar he had left behind to recede still farther. "I was afraid that you might be too busy to come," she went on. "You see, I remembered how important the work was and that there are things which cannot wait for an hour. I could have waited as long as you told me to wait. But I am so _glad_ you could come!" "I will always come," was his answer. "I have helpers who could be wholly trusted if I died to-night. I have thought of that. One must." She hesitated a moment and then said, "I am quite away here as you wanted me to be. I see it was the only thing. I read nothing, hear nothing. London--the War--" her voice fell a little. "They go on. Will you be kind to me and help me to forget them for a while?" He looked through the window at the sky and the moor. "They are not here--they never have been. The men who come back will do anything to make themselves forget for a little while. This place makes me feel that I am a man who has come back." "I will do anything--everything--you wish me to do," she said eagerly. "Dowie wondered if you would not want to be very quiet and not be reminded. I--wondered too."