.
How delightful were all the little absurd things she did for Robin!

When the chimes told her that it was a quarter to six she began to feel
puzzled, and just the least little bit anxious. It had been quite dark
for a little while now. Job Crickendon's farm was only about four
miles from Welsley. Harrington's horse might not be an exceptionally
fast-goer, but surely he could cover six miles in an hour. Dion and
Robin could get back in forty minutes at the most. They must have stayed
on at Job Crickendon's till past five o'clock. Could they have had tea
there? No, she was sure they would not have done that, when they knew
she was waiting for them, was looking forward eagerly to tea in the
nursery.

When six o'clock struck and they had not returned she felt really
uneasy, although she was not at all a nervous mother, and seldom, or
never, worried about her little son. She could not doubt any longer that
something unexpected had occurred. They were dining at half-past seven
that night. In an hour's time at the latest she and Dion would have to
dress. The hopes she had set on the family tea were vanishing. In her
uneasiness she began to feel almost absurdly disappointed about the tea.
She was hungry, too; she had had no lunch just because of the tea. It
was to be a sort of family revel, and she had wished to enjoy it in
every way, to make of it a real meal. Her abstention from lunch now
seemed to her almost pitiful. Disappointment became acute in her. Yet
even now her uneasiness, though definite, was not strong. If it had been
she would not have been able to feel so disappointed, even so sorry for
herself. She had given up the day to Dion. The nursery tea was to have
been her little reward. Now she would be deprived of it. For a moment
she felt hurt, almost the least bit angry.

As the words formed themselves in her mind she heard the quarter-past
six chime out in the tower. She stood still on the path. What had
happened? Perhaps Robin had fallen off Jane and hurt himself, or perhaps
there had been an accident when they were driving home. Harrington's
horse was probably a crock. He might have fallen down. The dogcart was a
high one----

She pulled herself up. She had always secretly rather despised the
typical "anxious mother," had always thought that the love which shows
itself in perpetual fear was a silly, poor sort of affection. Even when
Robin, as a baby, had once been seriously ill, at the time of the Clarke
di