She was not a self-conscious creature, but the time came when she became rather disturbed by the fact that people looked at her very often, as she walked in the streets. Sometimes they turned their heads to look after her; occasionally one person walking with another would say something quietly to his or her companion, and they even paused a moment to turn quite round and look. The first few times she noticed this she flushed prettily and said nothing to Mademoiselle Vallé who was generally with her. But, after her attention had been attracted by the same thing on several different days, she said uneasily: “Am I quite tidy, Mademoiselle?” “Quite,” Mademoiselle answered—just a shade uneasy herself. “I began to think that perhaps something had come undone or my hat was crooked,” she explained. “Those two women stared so. Then two men in a hansom leaned forward and one said something to the other, and they both laughed a little, Mademoiselle!” hurriedly, “Now, there are three young men!” quite indignantly. “Don’t let them see you notice them—but I think it _rude!_” They were carelessly joyous and not strictly well-bred youths, who were taking a holiday together, and their rudeness was quite unintentional and without guile. They merely stared and obviously muttered comments to each other as they passed, each giving the hasty, unconscious touch to his young moustache, which is the automatic sign of pleasurable observation in the human male. “If she had had companions of her own age she would have known all about it long ago,” Mademoiselle was thinking. Her intelligent view of such circumstances was that the simple fact they arose from could—with perfect taste—only be treated simply. It was a mere fact; therefore, why be prudish and affected about it. “They did not intend any rudeness,” she said, after they had gone by. “They are not much more than boys and not perfectly behaved. People often stare when they see a very pretty girl. I am afraid I do it myself. You are very pretty,” quite calmly, and as one speaking without prejudice. Robin turned and looked at her, and the colour, which was like a Jacqueminot rose, flooded her face. She was at the flushing age. Her gaze was interested, speculative, and a shade startled—merely a shade. “Oh,” she said briefly—not in exclamation exactly, but in a sort of acceptance. Then she looked straight before her and went on walking, with the lovely, slightly swaying, buoyant step which in itself drew attracted eyes after her. “If I were a model governess, such as one read of long before you were born,” Mademoiselle Vallé continued, “I should feel it my duty to tell you that beauty counts for nothing. But that is nonsense. It counts a great deal—with some women it counts for everything. Such women are not lucky. One should thank Heaven for it and make the best of it, without exaggerated anxiety. Both Dowie and I, who love you, are _grateful_ to _le bon Dieu_ that you are pretty.”