“Oh, certainly—certainly! Do excuse us! Carson and Bayle ought not to have—! We are so sorry. Good morning, _good_ morning,” they gave forth in discomfited sympathy and politeness, and really quite scurried away. Having shut the door on their retreat Feather stood shivering. “I am going to be turned out of the house! I shall have to live in the street!” she thought. “Where shall I keep my clothes if I live in the street!” Even she knew that she was thinking idiotically. Of course if everything was taken from you and sold, you would have no clothes at all, and wardrobes and drawers and closets would not matter. The realization that scarcely anything in the house had been paid for came home to her with a ghastly shock. She staggered upstairs to the first drawing-room in which there was a silly pretty little buhl writing table. She felt even more senseless when she sank into a chair before it and drew a sheet of note-paper towards her. Her thoughts would not connect themselves with each other and she could not imagine what she ought to say in her letter to Coombe. In fact she seemed to have no thoughts at all. She could only remember the things which had happened, and she actually found she could write nothing else. There seemed nothing else in the world. “Dear Lord Coombe,” trailed tremulously over the page—“The house is quite empty. The servants have gone away. I have no money. And there is not any food. And I am going to be turned out into the street—and the baby is crying because it is hungry.” She stopped there, knowing it was not what she ought to say. And as she stopped and looked at the words she began herself to wail somewhat as Robin had wailed in the dark when she would not listen or go to her. It was like a beggar’s letter—a beggar’s! Telling him that she had no money and no food—and would be turned out for unpaid rent. And that the baby was crying because it was starving! “It’s a beggar’s letter—just a beggar’s,” she cried out aloud to the empty room. “And it’s tru-ue!” Robin’s wail itself had not been more hopeless than hers was as she dropped her head and let it lie on the buhl table. She was not however even to be allowed to let it lie there, for the next instant there fell on her startled ear quite echoing through the house another ring at the doorbell and two steely raps on the smart brass knocker. It was merely because she did not know what else to do, having lost her wits entirely that she got up and trailed down the staircase again. When she opened the door, Lord Coombe—the apotheosis of exquisite fitness in form and perfect appointment as also of perfect expression—was standing on the threshold. CHAPTER VI If he had meant to speak he changed his mind after his first sight of her. He merely came in and closed the door behind him. Curious experiences with which life had provided him had added finish to an innate aptness of observation, and a fine readiness in action.