her with
outstretched hands. Her bright look at Robin Drummond was full of
sympathetic admiration, of felicitation. She kissed Nelly warmly. She
was not an effusive person, and nothing had been further from her
thoughts than kissing, but her heart went out at once to this charming
girl.

"_How_ good of you to come to see me!" she said, pressing Nelly's hands
in hers. "Into the east, too! And you must be so busy just now."

"I have been longing to see you," Nelly responded. "Robin has talked so
much about you." At that moment Nelly had no doubt that he had talked.
"And I wanted to see you here, in your ordinary life. Robin says you
will not be here much longer--that there will be an official position
found for you. And it was here that 'Creatures of Burden' was written!"

"Nearly all here," Mary said, smiling down at the young enthusiast.

Robin Drummond stood aside, in one of his characteristically awkward
attitudes, his hat in his hand, watching them. He was not thinking
sufficiently of himself to feel awkward, although he looked it. He was
thinking of those two dear women, as he called them to himself,
objurgating himself for his unworthiness to be the kinsman and lover of
one, the friend of the other.

He had never seen Nelly look like that before. Her air of worship was
charming. Now she let Mary Gray's hands fall while she went swiftly to
the table on which she had deposited her beautiful red roses. "I brought
them for you," she said, offering them to Mary Gray.

"How delicious! How sweet of you!"

The smell of the roses was in the room. It might have been the aura of
the two exquisite women, he thought. Nelly had come in carrying a little
whiff of scent that went with her, as much a part of her as the soft
rustling of her garments. He closed his eyes and there came to his
memory, sweet and sharp, the odour of wild thyme. Not a second of time
had passed when he opened them again. Mary was still praising her roses.
She was holding them to her face, leaning towards Nelly as she did so.
Her expression was more than kind: it was tender. She put down her
basket of roses and took Nelly's hands between hers. For a moment she
held them against her breast before she relinquished them. She spoke
with a little tremor in her voice. Why was it that Robin Drummond
thought suddenly of the nightingale who leans his breast upon a thorn?

In an instant the thrill in the atmosphere had passed. She was bustling
about to make