They got out and this was why Helen Muir, turning her eyes a moment from Robin whose hand she was holding, saw two women coming towards her with evident intention. At least one of them had evident intention. She was the one whose light attire produced the effect of being made of hyacinth petals. Because Mrs. Muir’s glance turned towards her, Robin’s turned also. She started a little and leaned against Mrs. Muir’s knee, her eyes growing very large and round indeed and filling with a sudden worshipping light. “It is—” she ecstatically sighed or rather gasped, “the Lady Downstairs!” Feather floated near to the seat and paused smiling. “Where is your nurse, Robin?” she said. Robin being always dazzled by the sight of her did not of course shine. “She is reading under the tree,” she answered tremulously. “She is only a few yards away,” said Mrs. Muir. “She knows Robin is playing with my boy and that I am watching them. Robin is your little girl?” amiably. “Yes. So kind of you to let her play with your boy. Don’t let her bore you. I am Mrs. Gareth-Lawless.” There was a little silence—a delicate little silence. “I recognized you as Mrs. Muir at once,” said Feather, unperturbed and smiling brilliantly, “I saw your portrait at the Grosvenor.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Muir gently. She had risen and was beautifully tall,—“the line” was perfect, and she looked with a gracious calm into Feather’s eyes. Donal, allured by the hyacinth petal colours, drew near. Robin made an unconscious little catch at his plaid and whispered something. “Is this Donal?” Feather said. “_Are_ you the Lady Downstairs, please?” Donal put in politely, because he wanted so to know. Feather’s pretty smile ended in the prettiest of outright laughs. Her maid had told her Andrews’ story of the name. “Yes, I believe that’s what she calls me. It’s a nice name for a mother, isn’t it?” Donal took a quick step forward. “_Are_ you her mother?” he asked eagerly. “Of course I am.” Donal quite flushed with excitement. “She doesn’t _know_,” he said. He turned on Robin. “She’s your Mother! You thought you hadn’t one! She’s your Mother!” “But I am the Lady Downstairs, too.” Feather was immensely amused. She was not subtle enough to know why she felt a perverse kind of pleasure in seeing the Scotch woman standing so still, and that it led her into a touch of vulgarity. “I wanted very much to see your boy,” she said. “Yes,” still gently from Mrs. Muir. “Because of Coombe, you know. We are such old friends. How queer that the two little things have made friends, too. I didn’t know. I am so glad I caught a glimpse of you and that I had seen the portrait. _Good_ morning. Goodbye, children.” While she strayed airily away they all watched her. She picked up her friend, the Starling, who, not feeling concerned or needed, had paused to look at daffodils. The children watched her until her victoria drove away, the chiffon ruffles of her flowerlike parasol fluttering in the air.