But she did not know that what
she felt was the yearning of a thing called love--a quite simple
and natural common thing of which she had no reason for having
any personal knowledge. As she was unaware of mothers, so she was
unaware of affection, of which Andrews would have felt it to be
superfluously sentimental to talk to her.
On the very rare occasions when the Lady Downstairs appeared on
the threshold of the Day Nursery, Robin--always having been freshly
dressed in one of her nicest frocks--stood and stared with immense
startled eyes and answered in a whisper the banal little questions
put to her. The Lady appeared at such rare intervals and remained
poised upon the threshold like a tropic plumaged bird for moments
so brief, that there never was time to do more than lose breath and
gaze as at a sudden vision. Why she came--when she did come--Robin
did not understand. She evidently did not belong to the small,
dingy nurseries which grew shabbier every year as they grew steadily
more grimy under the persistent London soot and fogs.
Feather always held up her draperies when she came. She would not
have come at all but for the fact that she had once or twice been
asked if the child was growing pretty, and it would have seemed
absurd to admit that she never saw her at all.
"I think she's rather pretty," she said downstairs. "She's round
and she has a bright colour--almost too bright, and her eyes are
round too.
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