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him. The deep flaw in his parents’ union revealed itself, perhaps, in the child’s gravity. It was as if he felt a lack in the very air he breathed. He did not see her until he was quite near, and then, after looking at her in amazement, he ran forward and threw himself into her arms.

‘My darling,’ said Monica, enfolding him and looking into the troubled little face—‘what are you doing up here all by yourself?’

‘Mummy lets me come here by myself sometimes,’ said Robin after a moment; ‘we often come up here together. It’s Nannie’s afternoon out today, you see.’

‘Yes.—But does Mummy know you are up here now — alone?’ Monica smoothed back the fair hair from his forehead.

‘No,’ said Robin, after a hesitation, ‘she doesn’t know. But she told me to run away. She’s crying.’

‘Crying!’ Monica’s voice could not control its sharpness. ‘Why?’

Again Robin hesitated, as though inhibitions too mature for his years strove with the childish hungering for comfort. Then his own eyes filled with tears and he lifted them to his grandmother, saying: ‘I liked that Captain; he made the fountain go and put in the fish, and I liked him. But why does he