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‘Elle est ben trop noire’? Could it possibly have parted him from Hester? But Hester was not trop noire. It was absurd and malicious to say it. She was the nut-brown maid in type.—‘And as sound as a nut,’ Monica muttered. Her brooding loneliness set her mind singing to these chimes, but this involuntary tribute cheered her. She did not hate Hester if she thought her as sound as a nut. And, keeping her place at the window, she heard her say: ‘Come on, Robin;—don’t dawdle,’ in her rational, unadmonishing voice. Hester was a just and careful mother, but his grandmother felt sure that Robin must miss the ardent, playful improvisation and gaiety that had shone about his father’s childhood.

‘How perfectly delightful of you, my dear!’ Thus she heard herself greet Hester and felt the sane machinery of life close round and sustain her. Hester was kissing her cheek, she was kissing Hester’s. ‘And you walked from the station in all this downpour!—Well, Robin darling.’

‘We were prepared for the rain, and we enjoy it, don’t we, Robin?’ said Hester. ‘Robin was delighted to come. He is always glad to have tea with his Grannie.’

Set upon the background of her dark reminiscences, this remark showed Monica something of