Once or twice she had seen Feather
by chance. In spite of herself she had heard about Henry. Now and
then he was furbished up and appeared briefly at Coombe Court or
at The Keep. It was always briefly because he inevitably began to
verge on misbehaving himself after twenty-four hours had passed.
On his last visit to Coombe House in town, where he had turned
up without invitation, he had become so frightfully drunk that he
had been barely rescued from the trifling faux pas of attempting
to kiss a very young royal princess. There were quite definite
objections to Henry.
Helen Muir was NOT proud of the Coombe relationship and with
unvaried and resourceful good breeding kept herself and her boy from
all chance of being drawn into anything approaching an intimacy.
Donal knew nothing of his prospects. There would be time enough
for that when he was older, but, in the meantime, there should be
no intercourse if it could be avoided.
She had smiled at herself when the "echo" had prompted her to the
hint of a quaint caution in connection with his little boy flame
of delight in the strange child he had made friends with. But it
HAD been a flame and, though she, had smiled, she sat very still
by the window later that night and she had felt a touch of weight
on her heart as she thought it over. There were wonderful years
when one could give one's children all the things they wanted, she
was saying to herself--the desires of their child hearts, the joy
of their child bodies, their little raptures of delight.
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