Andrews had been quite wonderful. Nobody can bother one about
a healthy, handsome child who is seen meticulously cared for and
beautifully dressed, being pushed or led or carried out in the open
air every day.
But there had arrived the special morning when she had seen a
child who so stood out among a dozen children that she had been
startled when she recognized that it was Robin. Andrews had taken
her charge to Hyde Park that day and Feather was driving through
the Row on her way to a Knightsbridge shop. First her glance had
been caught by the hair hanging to the little hips--extraordinary
hair in which Andrews herself had a pride. Then she had seen the
slender, exquisitely modeled legs, and the dancing sway of the
small body. A wonderfully cut, stitched, and fagotted smock and hat
she had, of course, taken in at a flash. When the child suddenly
turned to look at some little girls in a pony cart, the amazing
damask of her colour, and form and depth of eye had given her another
slight shock. She realized that what she had thrust lightly away
in a corner of her third floor produced an unmistakable effect when
turned out into the light of a gay world. The creature was tall
too--for six years old. Was she really six? It seemed incredible.
Ten more years and she would be sixteen.
Mrs. Heppel-Bevill had a girl of fifteen, who was a perfect
catastrophe.
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