“Andrews is,” Feather answered. “She could manage measles but she could not be responsible for shock. But she didn’t find out about the love affair. I found that out—by mere chance. Do you remember the day we got out of the victoria and went into the Gardens, Starling?” “The time you spoke to Mrs. Muir?” Coombe turned slightly towards them. Feather nodded, with a lightly significant air. “It was her boy,” she said, and then she laughed and nodded at Coombe. “He was quite as handsome as you said he was. No wonder poor Robin fell prostrate. He ought to be chained and muzzled by law when he grows up.” “But so ought Robin,” threw in the Starling in her brusque, young mannish way. “But Robin’s only a girl and she’s not a parti,” laughed Feather. Her eyes, lifted to Coombe’s, held a sort of childlike malice. “After his mother knew she was Miss Gareth-Lawless, he was not allowed to play in the Gardens again. Did she take him back to Scotland?” “They went back to Scotland,” answered Coombe, “and, of course, the boy was not left behind.” “Have _you_ a child five years old?” asked Vesey in his low voice of Feather. “You?” “It seems absurd to _me_,” said Feather, “I never quite believe in her.” “I don’t,” said Vesey. “She’s impossible.” “Robin is a stimulating name,” put in Harrowby. “_Is_ it too late to let us see her? If she’s such a beauty as Starling hints, she ought to be looked at.” Feather actually touched the bell by the fireplace. A sudden caprice moved her. The love story had not gone off quite as well as she had thought it would. And, after all, the child was pretty enough to show off. She knew nothing in particular about her daughter’s hours, but, if she was asleep, she could be wakened. “Tell Andrews,” she said to the footman when he appeared, “I wish Miss Robin to be brought downstairs.” “They usually go to bed at seven, I believe,” remarked Coombe, “but, of course, I am not an authority.” Robin was not asleep though she had long been in bed. Because she kept her eyes shut Andrews had been deceived into carrying on a conversation with her sister Anne, who had come to see her. Robin had been lying listening to it. She had begun to listen because they had been talking about the day she had spoiled her rose-coloured smock and they had ended by being very frank about other things. “As sure as you saw her speak to the boy’s mother the day before, just so sure she whisked him back to Scotland the next morning,” said Andrews. “She’s one of the kind that’s particular. Lord Coombe’s the reason. She does not want her boy to see or speak to him, if it can be helped. She won’t have it—and when she found out—” “Is Lord Coombe as bad as they say?” put in Anne with bated breath. “He must be pretty bad if a boy that’s eight years old has to be kept out of sight and sound of him.”