"I will bring one of my picture books," he said grandly. "Can you
read at all?"
"No," answered Robin adoring him. "What are picture books?"
"Haven't you any?" he blurted out.
"No," said Robin. She looked at the gravel walk, reflecting a
moment thoughtfully on the Day Nursery and the Night Nursery. Then
she lifted her eyes to the glowing blueness of his and said quite
simply, "I haven't anything."
He suddenly remembered things his Mother had told him about poor
people. Perhaps she was poor. Could she be poor when her frock
and hat and coat were so pretty? It was not polite to ask. But the
thought made him love her more. He felt something warm rush all
over his body. The truth, if he had been old enough to be aware of
it, was that the entire simpleness of her acceptance of things as
they were, and a something which was unconsciousness of any cause
for complaint, moved his child masculinity enormously. His old
nurse's voice came from her corner again.
"I must go to Nanny," he said, feeling somehow as if he had been
running fast. "I'll come tomorrow and bring two picture books."
He was a loving, warm blooded child human thing, and the expression
of affection was, to him, a familiar natural impulse. He put his
strong little eight-year-old arms round her and kissed her full
on her mouth, as he embraced her with all his strength. He kissed
her twice.
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