his cleverness and his manners and his way of keeping women off
without being rude--and the things he says about royalties and the
aristocracy going out of fashion. And about his clothes. I adore
his clothes. And I'm convinced he adores mine."

She had in fact at once observed his clothes as he had crossed the
grass to her seat under the copper beech. She had seen that his
fine thinness was inimitably fitted and presented itself to the
eye as that final note of perfect line which ignores any possibility
of comment. He did not wear things--they were expressions of his
mental subtleties. Feather on her part knew that she wore her
clothes--carried them about with her--however beautifully.

"I like him," she went on. "I don't know anything about political
parties and the state of Europe so I don't understand the things
he says which people think are so brilliant, but I like him. He
isn't really as old as I thought he was the first day I saw him.
He had a haggard look about his mouth and eyes then. He looked
as if a spangled pink and blue gauze soul with little floating
streamers was a relief to him."

The child Robin was a year old by that time and staggered about
uncertainly in the dingy little Day Nursery in which she passed her
existence except on such occasions as her nurse--who had promptly
fallen in love with the smart young footman--carried her down to
the kitchen and Servants' Hall in the basement where there was an
earthy smell and an abundance of cockroaches. The Servants' Hall
had been given that name in the catalogue of the fashionable
agents who let the home and it was as cramped and grimy as the
two top-floor nurseries.