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not herself. ‘They have been here for three years and get bigger and fatter all the time. They would pine if they were unhappy.’

‘But why does Mummy think they’re unhappy?—Could they make a noise to say if they were?’

‘No: they couldn’t make a noise—but they could move slowly and look dull;—that’s the way a fish would show unhappiness;—and not care to eat ants’ eggs.—They had a splendid feed of ants’ eggs only a little while ago and you should have seen them snap them up.’

Still Robin leaned against her and still he gazed at the fish. ‘But I sometimes eat my tea when I’m very unhappy,’ he said in the lowest voice. He trusted her completely; he was hers completely; he would never have said it to his mother—or why the lowered voice? For a moment the selfish joy of her proved possessorship filled her heart, then drew away to give place to apprehension. ‘Unhappy? Are you unhappy, darling? Why? Tell me why,’ she said and looking up at her with Clive’s eyes he said, faltering a little, ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s enough about the fish.—Don’t let Robin get sentimental about them,’ called Hester from above with kindly peremptoriness. ‘I’ve something to tell you, Monica.’ She had always, from the