Then Robin was born. She was an intruder and a calamity of course.
Nobody had contemplated her for a moment. Feather cried for a week
when she first announced the probability of her advent. Afterwards
however she managed to forget the approaching annoyance and went
to parties and danced to the last hour continuing to be a great
success because her prettiness was delicious and her diaphanous
mentality was no train upon the minds of her admirers male and
female.
That a Feather should become a parent gave rise to much wit of light
weight when Robin in the form of a bundle of lace was carried down
by her nurse to be exhibited in the gaudy crowded little drawing-room
in the slice of a house in the Mayfair street.
It was the Head of the House of Coombe who asked the first question
about her.
"What will you DO with her?" he inquired detachedly.
The frequently referred to "babe unborn" could not have presented
a gaze of purer innocence than did the lovely Feather. Her eyes of
larkspur blueness were clear of any thought or intention as spring
water is clear at its unclouded best.
Her ripple of a laugh was clear also--enchantingly clear.
"Do!" repeated. "What is it people 'do' with babies? I suppose
the nurse knows. I don't. I wouldn't touch her for the world. She
frightens me."
She floated a trifle nearer and bent to look at her.
"I shall call her Robin," she said.
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