As a result of the skirt dancing, the furniture of the empty drawing-room was a little scattered and untidy, but Feather had found a suitable corner among cushions on a sofa, after everyone had gone leaving Coombe alone with her. She wished he would sit down, but he preferred to stand in his still, uncomfortable way. “I know you are going to tell me something,” she broke the silence. “I am. When I went out of the room, I did not drive round to my club as I said I found myself obliged to. I went upstairs to the third floor—to the Nursery.” Feather sat quite upright. “_You_ went up to the Nursery!” If this was the reason for his staying, what on earth had he come upon in the region of the third floor, and how ridiculously unlike him to allow himself to interfere. Could it be Andrews and Jennings? Surely Andrews was too old.—This passed across her mind in a flash. “You called Andrews to use her authority with the child when she would not shake hands with me. The little creature, for some reason of her own, evidently feels an antipathy to me. That interested me and I watched her as Andrews whispered in her ear. The woman’s vanity was stung. I realized that she whispered a threat. A hint of actual ferocity showed in her eyes in spite of herself. Robin turned pale.” “Andrews was quite right. Children must be punished when they are rude.” Feather felt this at once silly and boring. What did he know about such matters? “The child said, ‘Andrews will pinch me!’ and I caught Andrews’ eye and knew it was true—also that she had done it before. I looked at the woman’s long, thin, strong fingers. They were cruel fingers. I do not take liberties, as a rule, but I took a liberty. I excused myself and climbed three flights of stairs.” Never had Feather been so surprised in her life. She looked like a bewildered child. “But—what _could_ it matter to _you?_” she said in soft amaze. “I don’t know,” his answer came after a moment’s pause. “I have caprices of mood. Certain mental images made my temperature rise. Momentarily it did matter. One is like that at times. Andrews’ feline face and her muscular fingers—and the child’s extraordinarily exquisite flesh—gave me a second’s furious shudder.” Feather quite broke in upon him. “Are you—are you _fond_ of children?” “No,” he was really abrupt. “I never thought of such a thing in my life—as being _fond_ of things.” “That was what—I mean I thought so.” Feather faltered, as if in polite acquiescence with a quite natural fact. Coombe proceeded: