“Do not permit the fact that she has known me for many years to prejudice you against the proposal,” said Coombe. “You might perhaps regard it rather as a sort of guarantee of my conduct in the matter. She knows the worst of me and still allows me to retain her acquaintance. She was brilliant and full of charm when she was a young woman, and she is even more so now because she is—of a rarity! If I were a girl and might earn my living in her service, I should feel that fortune had been good to me—good.” Robin’s eyes turned from one of them to the other—from Coombe to Mademoiselle Vallé, and from Mademoiselle to Coombe pathetically. “You—you see—what has been done to me,” she said. “A few weeks ago I should have _known_ that God was providing for me—taking care of me. And now—I am still afraid. I feel as if she would see that—that I am not young and fresh any more but black with evil. I am afraid of her—I am afraid of you,” to Coombe, “and of myself.” Coombe rose, evidently to go away. “But you are not afraid of Mademoiselle Vallé,” he put it to her. “She will provide the necessary references for the Duchess. I will leave her to help you to decide.” Robin rose also. She wondered if she ought not to hold out her hand. Perhaps he saw her slight movement. He himself made none. “I remember you objected to shaking hands as a child,” he said, with an impersonal civil smile, and the easy punctiliousness of his bow made it impossible for her to go further. CHAPTER XXV Some days before this the Duchess of Darte had driven out in the morning to make some purchases and as she had sat in her large landau she had greatly missed Miss Brent who had always gone with her when she had made necessary visits to the shops. She was not fond of shopping and Miss Brent had privately found pleasure in it which had made her a cheerful companion. To the quiet elderly woman whose life previous to her service with this great lady had been spent in struggles with poverty, the mere incident of entering shops and finding eager salesmen springing forward to meet her with bows and amiable offers of ministration, was to the end of her days an almost thrilling thing. The Duchess bought splendidly though quietly. Knowing always what she wanted, she merely required that it be produced, and after silently examining it gave orders that it should be sent to her. There was a dignity in her decision which was impressive. She never gave trouble or hesitated. The staffs of employees in the large shops knew and reveled in her while they figuratively bent the knee. Miss Brent had been a happy satisfied woman while she had lived. She had died peacefully after a brief and, as it seemed at first, unalarming illness at one of her employer’s country houses to which she had been amiably sent down for a holiday. Every kindness and attention had been bestowed upon her and only a few moments before she fell into her last sleep she had been talking pleasantly of her mistress.