on's turn would come. Meanwhile, did
he actually love Robin? He thought he did. He was greatly interested in
Robin, was surprised by his abrupt manifestations and almost hypnotized
by his outbursts of wrath; when Robin assumed his individual look of
mild inquiry, Dion was touched, and had a very tender feeling at his
heart. No doubt all this meant love. But Dion fully realized that his
feeling towards Robin did not compare with Rosamund's. It was less
intense, less profound, less of the very roots of being. His love for
Robin was a shadow compared with the substance of his love for Rosamund.
How would Rosamund's two loves compare? He began to wonder, even
sometimes put to himself the questions, "Suppose Robin were to die,
how would she take it? And how would she take it if I were to die?" And
then, of course, his mind sometimes did foolish things, asked questions
beginning with, "Would she rather----?" He remembered his talks with
Rosamund on the Acropolis--talks never renewed--and compared the former
life without little Robin, with the present life pervaded gently, or
vivaciously, or almost furiously by little Robin. Among the mountains
and by the deep-hued seas of Greece he had foreseen and wondered about
Robin. Now Robin was here; the great change was accomplished. Probably
Rosamund and he, Dion, would never again be alone with their love. Other
children, perhaps, would come. Even if they did not, Robin would pervade
their lives, in long clothes, short skirts, knickerbockers, trousers. He
might, of course, some day choose a profession which would carry him to
some distant land: to an Indian jungle or a West African swamp. But by
that time his parents would be middle-aged people. And how would their
love be then? Dion knew that now, when Rosamund and he were still young,
both less than thirty, he would give a hundred Robins, even if they were
all his own Robins, to keep his one Rosamund. That was probably quite
natural now, for Robin was really rather inexpressive in the midst of
his most unbridled demonstrations. When he was calm and blew bubbles he
had charm; when he was red and furious he had a certain power; when he
sneezed he had pathos; when he slept the serenity of him might be felt;
but he would mean very much more presently. He would grow, and surely
his father's love for him would grow. But could it ever grow to the
height, the flowering height, of the husband's love for Rosamund? Dion
already felt certain tha