Robin had probably slept almost as much as her mother.
Feather staring at the pinkness around her reached at last, with
the assistance of a certain physical consciousness, a sort of
spiritless intention.
"She's asleep now," she murmured. "I hope she won't waken for a
long time. I feel faint. I shall have to find something to eat--if
it's only biscuits." Then she lay and tried to remember what Cook
had said about her not starving. "She said there were a few things
left in the pantry and closets. Perhaps there's some condensed
milk. How do you mix it up? If she cries I might go and give her
some. It wouldn't be so awful now it's daylight."
She felt shaky when she got out of bed and stood on her feet. She
had not had a maid in her girlhood so she could dress herself,
much as she detested to do it. After she had begun however she
could not help becoming rather interested because the dress she
had worn the day before had become crushed and she put on a fresh
one she had not worn at all. It was thin and soft also, and black
was quite startlingly becoming to her. She would wear this one
when Lord Coombe came, after she wrote to him. It was silly of
her not to have written before though she knew he had left town
after the funeral. Letters would be forwarded.
"It will be quite bright in the dining-room now," she said
to encourage herself. "And Tonson once said that the only places
the sun came into below stairs were the pantry and kitchen and it
only stayed about an hour early in the morning.
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