“How little one can tell in letters,” she said.  “Scarcely anything.”

“You made me feel Welsley in yours.”

“Did I?  Why did you walk from the station?”

“I wanted to taste your home, to get into your atmosphere, if I could, before seeing you.  Rose, love can make a man almost afraid at times.”

It seemed to her that his dark eyes burned with fires they had captured in South Africa.  Sitting in the old room with its homely and ecclesiastical look, he had an oddly remote appearance, she thought, as if he belonged to a very different milieu.  Always dark, he now looked almost gipsy-like; yet he had the unmistakable air of a soldier.  But if there had ever been anything there was now nothing left of the business man in Dion.

“Won’t you find it very difficult to settle down again to the life in Austin Friars, Dion?” she said.

“Perhaps I should, but for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You and Robin at home when the drudgery is done.”

Rosamund saw Welsley receding from her into darkness, with its familiar faces and voices, its gray towers, its cloisters, its bells, the Dresden Amen, the secret garden, the dreams she had had in the garden.

“Number 5 is all ready to go into.  It was lucky we only let it for six months,” she said quietly.

“Uncle Biron has given me a fortnight’s holiday, or rather gladly agreed to my taking it.  Of course I’m my own master in a way, being a partner, but I want to consider him.  He was awfully good about my going away.  Mother’s looking well.  She was at our Thanksgiving Service; Beattie and Guy too.  I’ve had just a glimpse of godfather.”

They talked about family things till Robin came in from his festivity with Mr. Thrush, who was staying at Little Cloisters, but only till the following day.

That was a great moment, the moment of Robin’s arrival.  Mr. Thrush did not appear with him, but, being a man of delicate perceptions despite his unfortunate appearance, retired discreetly to the servants’ hall, leaving his devoted adherent free for the “family reunion,” as he called it.

“Go up quietly, dear,” said the nurse to Robin, “and tap at the drawing-room door.”

“Shall I tap?” asked Robin earnestly.

He was looking unusually solemn, his lips were parted, and his eyes almost stared.

“Yes, dear.  Tap prettily, like a young gentleman as you are, and when you hear ’Come in!’——­”

“I know then!” interrupted Robin, with an air of decision.

He walked rather slowly upstairs, lifting one brown leg after the other thoughtfully from step to step, till he was outside the drawing-room door.  Inside he heard the noise of a man’s voice, which sounded to him very tremendous and important, the voice of a brave soldier.

“That’s Fa!” he thought, and he listened for a moment as to the voice of a god.

Then he doubled his small fist and gave a bang to the door.  Some instinct told him not to follow nurse’s injunction, not to try to be pretty in his tapping.  The voice of the soldier ceased inside, there was a brief sound of a woman’s voice, then came a strong “Come in!”