The upper rooms in London houses—even in the large ones—are usually given up to servants’ bedrooms, nurseries, and school rooms. Stately staircases become narrower as they mount, and the climber gets glimpses of apartments which are frequently bare, whatsoever their use, and, if not grubby in aspect, are dull and uninteresting. But, in Lady Etynge’s house, it was plain that a good deal had been done. Stairs had been altered and widened, walls had been given fresh and delicate tints, and one laid one’s hand on cream white balustrades and trod on soft carpets. A good architect had taken interest in the problems presented to him, and the result was admirable. Partitions must have been removed to make rooms larger and of better shape. “Nothing could be altered without spoiling it!” exclaimed Robin, standing in the middle of a sitting room, all freshness and exquisite colour—the very pictures on the wall being part of the harmony. All that a girl would want or love was there. There was nothing left undone—unremembered. The soft Chesterfield lounge, which was not too big and was placed near the fire, the writing table, the books, the piano of satinwood inlaid with garlands; the lamp to sit and read by. “How glad she must be to come back to anyone who loves her so,” said Robin. Here was a quilted basket with three Persian kittens purring in it, and she knelt and stroked their fluffiness, bending her slim neck and showing how prettily the dark hair grew up from it. It was, perhaps, that at which Lady Etynge was looking as she stood behind her and watched her. The girl-nymph slenderness and flexibility of her leaning body was almost touchingly lovely. There were several other rooms and each one was, in its way, more charming than the other. A library in Dresden blue and white, and with peculiarly pretty windows struck the last note of cosiness. All the rooms had pretty windows with rather small square panes enclosed in white frames. It was when she was in this room that Robin took her courage in her hands. She must not let her chance go by. Lady Etynge was so kind. She wondered if it would seem _gauche_ and too informal to speak now. She stood quite upright and still, though her voice was not quite steady when she began. “Lady Etynge,” she said, “you remember what Fräulein Hirsch said about girls who wish to support themselves? I—I am one of them. I want very much to earn my own living. I think I am well educated. I have been allowed to read a good deal and my teachers, Mademoiselle Vallé and Fräulein Hirsch, say I speak and write French and German well for an English girl. If you thought I could be a suitable companion for Miss Etynge, I—should be very happy.” How curiously Lady Etynge watched her as she spoke. She did not look displeased, but there was something in her face which made Robin afraid that she was, perhaps, after all, not the girl who was fortunate enough to quite “do.”