"Have they not brought breakfast?" cried Baby, the housekeeper, very bustling all at once, to cover her pretty confusion. She sprang to the bell, then checked herself, with finger on lip, and tripped from the room, pointing her feet and laughing over her shoulder, as if to her happy years even that sad precaution of quietness must have its mirthful side. Both men looked after her indulgently. Then Bethune’s face clouded. "She is but a child, after all," he said doubtfully. "Nay," said Harry, "it seems to me she has a woman’s heart." "She is as true as steel," asserted her lover. When the girl returned, English went restlessly forth. He would wait for M. Châtelard, he said, in the hall. The newly betrothed were alone; and, for a second or two, eyed each other shyly. Then Bethune’s face softened in the old, good way; and yet with something, too, that had never been there before, something which made Aspasia drop her lids. "Well, Robin?" said he, and beckoned. She came to him sidling. It would always be thus between them. He would beckon and she would come. Had the impossible happened, had that mistress of his hidden ideal condescended to him, he would have gone far to crave the least favour, and always with a trembling soul. But the life that touches the transcendent joy, the rare ecstasy is fated to know but little happiness. Providence, perhaps, was not dealing unkindly with this man. "Why do you call me Robin?" she asked. He was not of those who explain. With a kiss on her hand he told her simply that she was like a robin. "Then I hope you’ll remember, sir," she said, briskly disengaging herself, "that the robin is a bird that makes music in season and out of season." *CHAPTER VIII* Bethune went off in the cart, at the best speed of Aspasia’s pony, carrying a second telegram, more weighty than that concerning M. Châtelard’s luggage. This was a summons for a London specialist. Although unaware that the Frenchman had himself a world-wide reputation for such cases, English, with his habit of quick judgment, had decided to trust the proffered skill. But, in the course of their conversation, he had tentatively touched upon the advantage of a consultation; and the suggestion was accepted; with so much alacrity, indeed, that a more livid pallor spread over the husband’s countenance. M. Châtelard saw the impression he had unwittingly produced. With fat forefinger thrown out in emphasis, he promptly endeavoured to remove it. "In cases of obscure diagnosis, two heads are always better than one," said he, kindly. "Yet your great Farrar will, I have no doubt—so much confidence have I in myself, my dear sir—merely confirm my treatment—a treatment, in parenthesis, purely negative. Paradoxical, yet true, sir, the slower our fair patient recovers the better."