If she did, how splendid it would be.  His heart yearned at the thought of a Rosamund submissive to his wish, unselfish out of the depth of—­dared he think of it as a new growth of love within her, tending towards a great flowering which would bring a glory into two lives?  But if she yielded at once to his wish, without a word of regret, if she took the speedy return to London quite simply as a matter of course, he would feel almost irresistibly inclined to take her in his arms and to say, “No, you shall stay on at Little Cloisters.  We’ll manage somehow.”  Perhaps he could stand three hours daily in the train.  He could read the papers.  A man must do that.  As well do it in the train as in an arm-chair at home.

But at any rate he would put her to the test.  On that he was resolved.

At dinner that night Rosamund told him she had already written to “dear, kind Job Crickendon” about the pony.

“You might shoot on Monday,” she said.

“Right you are.  When we hear about the pony we’ll tell Robin.”

“Yes.  Not till it’s all delightfully settled.  Robin on horseback!”

Her eyes shone.

“I can see him already with a gun in his hand old enough to shoot with you,” she added.  “We must bring him up to be a thorough little sportsman; like that Greek boy Dirmikis.”

They talked about Robin’s future till dinner was over.  Dion loved their talk, but he could not help seeing that in Rosamund’s forecast town life held no place at all.  In everything, or in almost everything, that she said the country held pride of place.  There was not one word about Jenkins’s gymnasium, or the Open Air Club with its swimming facilities, or riding in the Park, or fencing at Bernardi’s.  Rosamund seemed tacitly to assume that everything which was Doric was connected with country life.

On the following morning she hastened out “to buy riding gaiters for
Robin.”  She had his “size” with her.

Not a word had been said about Dion’s visit to Mrs. Clarke.  Rosamund’s lack of all curiosity in regard to Mrs. Clarke and himself gave him the measure of her faith in him.  Few women, he thought, would be able to trust a man so completely.  And this trust was the more remarkable because he felt positive that Rosamund distrusted Mrs. Clarke.  She had never said so, but he considered that by her conduct she had proved her distrust.

It was a great virtue in Rosamund, that power she had to trust where trust was deserved.

Dear, kind Job Crickendon wrote that Master Robin could ride his pony, Jane, and welcome.  The letter arrived on Saturday.  Rosamund read it aloud to Dion.

“The people about here are the dearest people I’ve ever come across,” she said.  “So different from people in London.”

“Why, what’s the matter with people in London?” asked Dion.

“Oh, I don’t know; they’re more artificial.  They think so much about clothes, and hats, and the way their hair’s done.”