"What--will happen?" she murmured. But she did not cry.

The deadliness of the blow which had stupefied her still left her barely
conscious of earthly significances. But something of the dark mistiness
was beginning to lift slowly and reveal to her vague shadows and shapes,
as it were. If no one would believe that she was married to Donal, then
people would think that she had been the kind of girl who is sent away
from decent houses, if she is a servant, and cut off in awful disgrace
from her family and never spoken to again, if she belongs to the upper
classes. Books and Benevolent Societies speak of her as "fallen" and
"lost." Her vision of such things was at once vague and primitive. It
took the form of pathetic fictional figures or memories of some hushed
rumour heard by mere chance, rather than of anything more realistic. She
dropped her hands upon her lap and looked at the fire again.

"Now I shall be like that," she said listlessly. "And it does not
matter. Donal knew. And I do not care--I do not care."

"The Duchess will send me away," she whispered next. "Perhaps she will
send me away to-day. Where shall I go!" The hands on her lap began to
tremble and she suddenly felt cold in spite of the fire. The sound of a
knock on the door made her start to her feet. The woman who had looked
sorry for her when she came in had brought a message.

"Her grace wishes to see you, Miss," she said.

"Thank you," Robin answered.

After the servant had gone away she stood still a moment or so.

"Perhaps she is going to tell me now," she said to the empty room.

* * * * *

Two aspects of her face rose before the Duchess as the girl entered the
room where she waited for her with Lord Coombe. One was that which had
met her glance when Mademoiselle Valle had brought her charge on her
first visit. She recalled her impression of the childlikeness which
seemed all the dark dew of appealing eyes, which were like a young doe's
or a bird's rather than a girl's. The other was the star-like radiance
of joy which had swept down the ballroom in Donal's arms with dancing
whirls and swayings and pretty swoops. About them had laughed and
swirled the boys now lying dead under the heavy earth of Flemish fields.
And Donal--!

This face looked small and almost thin and younger than ever. The eyes
were like those of a doe who was lost and frightened--as if it heard
quite near it the baying of hounds, but knew