But she's
not--that I've ever heard of. He's got some fancy of his own the
same as Robin has, though you wouldn't think it to look at him.
I'd like to know what it is."
It was a fancy--an old, old fancy--it harked back nearly thirty
years--to the dark days of youth and passion and unending tragedy
whose anguish, as it then seemed, could never pass--but which,
nevertheless, had faded with the years as they flowed by. And yet
left him as he was and had been. He was not sentimental about it,
he smiled at himself drearily--though never at the memory--when
it rose again and, through its vague power, led him to do strange
things curiously verging on the emotional and eccentric. But even
the child--who quite loathed him for some fantastic infant reason
of her own--even the child had her part in it. His soul oddly
withdrew itself into a far remoteness as he walked away and
Piccadilly became a shadow and a dream.
Dowson went home and began to pack neatly in a box the neglected
doll and the toys which had accompanied her. Robin seeing her
doing it, asked a question.
"Are they going back to the shop?"
"No. Lord Coombe is letting me give them to a little girl who is
very poor and has to lie in bed because her back hurts her. His
lordship is so kind he does not want you to be troubled with them.
He is not angry. He is too good to be angry."
That was not true, thought Robin.
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