So it was Lord Coombe who had somehow done it. He had made Donal’s mother take him away. It was Lord Coombe. Who was Lord Coombe? It was because he was wicked that Donal’s mother would not let him play with her—because he was wicked. All at once there came to her a memory of having heard his name before. She had heard it several times in the basement Servants’ Hall and, though she had not understood what was said about him, she had felt the atmosphere of cynical disapproval of something. They had said “him” and “her” as if he somehow belonged to the house. On one occasion he had been “high” in the manner of some reproof to Jennings, who, being enraged, freely expressed his opinions of his lordship’s character and general reputation. The impression made on Robin then had been that he was a person to be condemned severely. That the condemnation was the mere outcome of the temper of an impudent young footman had not conveyed itself to her, and it was the impression which came back to her now with a new significance. He was the cause—not Donal, not Donal’s Mother—but this man who was so bad that servants were angry because he was somehow connected with the house. “As to his badness,” she heard Andrews answer, “there’s some that can’t say enough against him. Badness is smart these days. He’s bad enough for the boy’s mother to take him away from. It’s what he is in this house that does it. She won’t have her boy playing with a child like Robin.” Then—even as there flashed upon her bewilderment this strange revelation of her own unfitness for association with boys whose mothers took care of them—Jennings, the young footman, came to the door. “Is she awake, Miss Andrews?” he said, looking greatly edified by Andrews’ astonished countenance. “What on earth—?” began Andrews. “If she is,” Jennings winked humorously, “she’s to be dressed up and taken down to the drawing-room to be shown off. I don’t know whether it’s Coombe’s idea or not. He’s there.” Robin’s eyes flew wide open. She forgot to keep them shut. She was to go downstairs! Who wanted her—who? Andrews had quite gasped. “Here’s a new break out!” she exclaimed. “I never heard such a thing in my life. She’s been in bed over two hours. I’d like to know—” She paused here because her glance at the bed met the dark liquidity of eyes wide open. She got up and walked across the room. “You are awake!” she said. “You look as if you hadn’t been asleep at all. You’re to get up and have your frock put on. The Lady Downstairs wants you in the drawing-room.” Two months earlier such a piece of information would have awakened in the child a delirium of delight. But now her vitality was lowered because her previously unawakened little soul had soared so high and been so dashed down to cruel earth again. The brilliancy of the Lady Downstairs had been dimmed as a candle is dimmed by the light of the sun.