Then Janey took the little girls to the room upstairs where their nurse was. Barbara looked back at Kitty as she went, but Kitty's eyes followed Janet. "Robert," she said, "will she always look at me like that? Shall I never know what she is thinking?" "None of us know what Janet's thinking." He paused. "I told you we had to be very careful of her." "Is she delicate?" "No. Physically, she's far stronger than Barbara. She's what you call morally delicate." She flushed. "What do you mean, Robert?" "Well--not able to bear things. For instance, we'd a small child staying with us once. It turned out that she wasn't a nice child at all. We didn't know it, though. But Janet had a perfect horror of her. It's as if she had a sort of intuition. She was so unhappy about it that we had to send the child away." His forehead was drawn into a frown of worry and perplexity. "I don't see how she's to grow up. It makes me feel so awfully responsible. The world isn't an entirely pretty place, you know, and it seems such a cruel shame to bring a child like that into it. Doesn't it?" "Yes." "Somehow I think you'll understand her, Kitty." "Yes, Robert, I understand." She came to him. She laid her hand on the sleeve of his coat, and stood by him. Her eyes were shining through some dew that was not tears. "What is it, Kitty?" "Will you marry me soon?" she said. "Very soon?" she whispered. "I--I can't wait." She hid her face against his arm. He thought it was the motherhood in her that was moved, that pleaded, impatient for its hour. "Why should we wait? Do you suppose I want to?" "Hush!" she said. "They're coming." They came a little solemnly, as beseemed a festival. Janet, in her long white pinafore, looked more than ever the spiritual thing she was. Her long brown hair hung down her cheeks, straight and smooth as a parted veil, sharpening her small face, that flickered as a flame flickers in troubled air. Beside her little Barbara bloomed and glowed, with cheeks full-blown, and cropped head flowering into curls that stood on end in brown tufts, and tawny feathers, and little crests of gold. They took their places, pensively, at the table. They had beautiful manners, Robert's children; little exquisite, gentle ways of approaching and of handling things. They held themselves very erect, with a secure, diminutive distinction. Kitty's heart sank deeper as she looked at them. Even Barbara, who was so very young, carried her small perfections intact through all the spontaneities of her behaviour. All through tea-time little Barbara, pursued by her dream, talked incessantly of castles in the sand. And when she was tired of talking she began to sing. "Darling," said Jane, "we don't sing at tea-time." "_I_ do," said little Barbara, and laughed. Jane laughed too, hysterically.