Chapter 26 - Page 2

preliminary talk of Coombe's with Mademoiselle Valle had warned
her against allowing any suspicion that this "earning a living"
had been too obviously ameliorated.

"Her life is unusual. She herself is unusual in a most dignified
and beautiful way. You will, it might almost be said, hold the
position of a young lady in waiting," was Mademoiselle's gracefully
put explanation.

When, after they had been ushered into the room where her grace
sat in her beautiful and mellow corner by the fire, Robin advanced
towards the highbacked chair, what the old woman was chiefly
conscious of was the eyes which seemed all lustrous iris. There was
uncommon appeal and fear in them. The blackness of their setting
of up-curled lashes made them look babyishly wide.

"Mademoiselle Valle has told me of your wish to take a position
as companion," the Duchess said after they were seated.

"I want very much," said Robin, "to support myself and Mademoiselle
thinks that I might fill such a place if I am not considered too
young."

"You are not too young--for me. I want something young to come and
befriend me. Am I too old for YOU?" Her smile had been celebrated
fifty years earlier and it had not changed. A smile does not. She
was not like Lord Coombe in any degree however remote. She did
not belong to his world, Robin thought.

"If I can do well enough the things you require done," she answered
blushing her Jacqueminot rose blush, "I shall be grateful if you
will let me try to do them. Mademoiselle will tell you that I have
no experience, but that I am one who tries well."

"Mademoiselle has answered all my questions concerning your
qualifications so satisfactorily that I need ask you very few."

Such questions as she asked were not of the order Robin had
expected. She led her into talk and drew Mademoiselle Valle into the
conversation. It was talk which included personal views of books,
old gardens and old houses, people, pictures and even--lightly--politics.
Robin found herself quite incidentally, as it were, reading aloud
to her an Italian poem. She ceased to be afraid and was at ease.
She forgot Lord Coombe. The Duchess listening and watching her
warmed to her task of delicate investigation and saw reason for
anticipating agreeably stimulating things. She was not taking upon
herself a merely benevolent duty which might assume weight and
become a fatigue. In fact she might trust Coombe for that. After
all it was he who had virtually educated the child--little as she
was aware of the singular fact. It was he who had dragged her
forth from her dog kennel of a top floor nursery and quaintly
incongruous