"I want very much," said Robin, "to support myself and Mademoiselle
thinks that I might fill such a place if I am not considered too
young."
"You are not too young--for me. I want something young to come and
befriend me. Am I too old for YOU?" Her smile had been celebrated
fifty years earlier and it had not changed. A smile does not. She
was not like Lord Coombe in any degree however remote. She did
not belong to his world, Robin thought.
"If I can do well enough the things you require done," she answered
blushing her Jacqueminot rose blush, "I shall be grateful if you
will let me try to do them. Mademoiselle will tell you that I have
no experience, but that I am one who tries well."
"Mademoiselle has answered all my questions concerning your
qualifications so satisfactorily that I need ask you very few."
Such questions as she asked were not of the order Robin had
expected. She led her into talk and drew Mademoiselle Valle into the
conversation. It was talk which included personal views of books,
old gardens and old houses, people, pictures and even--lightly--politics.
Robin found herself quite incidentally, as it were, reading aloud
to her an Italian poem. She ceased to be afraid and was at ease.
She forgot Lord Coombe. The Duchess listening and watching her
warmed to her task of delicate investigation and saw reason for
anticipating agreeably stimulating things.
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