ket as she always did. She put it down on its table and went and
stood a few minutes at a window looking out. The back of her neck, Dowie
realised, was now as slenderly round and velvet white as it had been
when she had dressed her hair on the night of the Duchess' dance. Dowie
did not know that its loveliness had been poor George's temporary
undoing; she only thought of it as a sign of the wonderful change. It
had been waxen pallid and had shown piteous hollows.

She turned about and spoke.

"Dowie, dear, I am going to write to Lord Coombe."

Dowie's heart hastened its beat and she herself being conscious of the
fact, hastened to answer in an unexcited manner.

"That'll be nice, my dear. His lordship'll be glad to get the good news
you can give him."

She asked herself if she would not perhaps tell her something--something
which would make the fourth time.

"Perhaps he's asked her to do it," she thought.

But Robin said nothing which could make a fourth time. After she had
eaten her breakfast she sat down and wrote a letter. It did not seem a
long one and when she had finished it she sent it to the post by Jock
Macaur.

* * * * *

There had been dark news both by land and sea that day, and Coombe had
been out for many hours. He did not return to Coombe House until late in
the evening. He was tired almost beyond endurance, and his fatigue was
not merely a thing of muscle and nerve. After he sat down it was some
time before he even glanced at the letters upon his writing table.

There were always a great many and usually a number of them were
addressed in feminine handwriting. His hospital and other war work
brought him numerous letters from women. Even their most impatient
masculine opponents found themselves admitting that the women were being
amazing.

Coombe was so accustomed to opening such letters that he felt no
surprise when he took up an envelope without official lettering upon it,
and addressed in a girlish hand. Girls were being as amazing as older
women.

But this was not a letter about war work or Red Cross efforts. It was
Robin's letter. It was not long and was as simple as a school girl's.
She had never been clever--only exquisite and adorable, and never dull
or stupid.

"Dear Lord Coombe,

"You were kind enough to say that you would come to see me when I asked
you. Please will you come now? I hope I am not asking you to take a long
journey when you are eng