CHAPTER XIV
When, from Robin's embarrassed young consciousness, there had
welled up the hesitating confession, "She--doesn't like me," she
could not, of course, have found words in which to make the reasons
for her knowledge clear, but they had for herself no obscurity.
The fair being who, at rare intervals, fluttered on the threshold
of her world had a way of looking at her with a shade of aloof
distaste in her always transient gaze.
The unadorned fact was that Feather did NOT like her. She had been
outraged by her advent. A baby was absurdly "out of the picture."
So far as her mind encompassed a future, she saw herself flitting
from flower to flower of "smart" pleasures and successes,
somehow, with more money and more exalted invitations--"something"
vaguely--having happened to the entire Lawdor progeny, and she,
therefore, occupying a position in which it was herself who could
gracefully condescend to others. There was nothing so "stodgy"
as children in the vision. When the worst came to the worst, she
had been consoled by the thought that she had really managed the
whole thing very cleverly. It was easier, of course, to so arrange
such things in modern days and in town. The Day Nursery and the
Night Nursery on the third floor, a smart-looking young woman
who knew her business, who even knew what to buy for a child and
where to buy it, without troubling any one simplified the situation.
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