It was her mother in a dress whose
spring-like tint made her a sort of slim dryad. She looked so pretty
and young that Robin caught her breath as she rose and went forward.
"It is your aged parent come to give you her blessing," said
Feather.
"I was wondering if I might come to your room in the morning,"
Robin answered.
Feather seated herself lightly. She was not intelligent enough to
have any real comprehension of the mood which had impelled her to
come. She had merely given way to a secret sense of resentment of
something which annoyed her. She knew, however, why she had put
on the spring-leaf green dress which made her look like a girl.
She was not going to let Robin feel as if she were receiving a
visit from her grandmother. She had got that far.
"We don't know each other at all, do we?" she said.
"No," answered Robin. She could not remove her eyes from her
loveliness. She brought up such memories of the Lady Downstairs
and the desolate child in the shabby nursery.
"Mothers are not as intimate with their daughters as they used
to be when it was a sort of virtuous fashion to superintend their
rice pudding and lecture them about their lessons. We have not
seen each other often."
"No," said Robin.
Feather's laugh had again the rather high note Coombe had noticed.
"You haven't very much to say, have you?" she commented. "And you
stare at me as if you were trying to explain me.
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