They swept through the rooms and examined everything in them. The truth was that the—by this time well known—fact that the unexplainable Coombe had built them made them a curiosity, and a sort of secret source of jokes. The party even mounted to the upper story to go through the bedrooms, and, it was while they were doing this, that Coombe chose to linger behind with Dowson. He remained entirely expressionless for a few moments. Dowson did not in the least gather whether he meant to speak to her or not. But he did. “You meant,” he scarcely glanced at her, “that she was old enough for a governess.” “Yes, my lord,” rather breathless in her hurry to speak before she heard the high heels tapping on the staircase again. “And one that’s a good woman as well as clever, if I may take the liberty. A good one if—” “If a good one would take the place?” Dowson did not attempt refutation or apology. She knew better. He said no more, but sauntered out of the room. As he did so, Robin stood up and made the little “charity bob” of a curtsey which had been part of her nursery education. She was too old now to have refused him her hand, but he never made any advances to her. He acknowledged her curtsey with the briefest nod. Not three minutes later the high heels came tapping down the staircase and the small gust of visitors swept away also. CHAPTER XVI The interview which took place between Feather and Lord Coombe a few days later had its own special character. “A governess will come here tomorrow at eleven o’clock,” he said. “She is a Mademoiselle Vallé. She is accustomed to the educating of young children. She will present herself for your approval. Benby has done all the rest.” Feather flushed to her fine-spun ash-gold hair. “What on earth can it matter!” she cried. “It does not matter to you,” he answered; “it chances—for the time being—to matter to _me_.” “Chances!” she flamed forth—it was really a queer little flame of feeling. “That’s it. You don’t really care! It’s a caprice—just because you see she is going to be pretty.” “I’ll own,” he admitted, “that has a great deal to do with it.” “It has everything to do with it,” she threw out. “If she had a snub nose and thick legs you wouldn’t care for her at all.” “I don’t say that I do care for her,” without emotion. “The situation interests me. Here is an extraordinary little being thrown into the world. She belongs to nobody. She will have to fight for her own hand. And she will have to _fight_, by God! With that dewy lure in her eyes and her curved pomegranate mouth! She will not know, but she will draw disaster!” “Then she had better not be taught anything at all,” said Feather. “It would be an amusing thing to let her grow up without learning to read or write at all. I know numbers of men who would like the novelty of it. Girls who know so much are a bore.”