In the serious little room the Duchess had given to her Robin¹ built for herself a condition she called happiness. She drew the spiritual substance from which it was made from her pleasure in the books of reference closely fitted into their shelves, in the files for letters and more imposing² documents, in the varieties of letter paper and envelopes of different sizes and materials which had been provided for her use in case of necessity.

 

“You may not use the more substantial ones often, but you must be prepared for any unexpected contingency,” the Duchess had explained, thereby³ smoothing her pathway by the suggestion of responsibilities.

 

The girl did not know the extent of her employer’s consideration for her, but she knew that she was kind with a special grace and comprehension. A subtle truth she also did not recognize was that the remote flame of her own being was fiercely alert in its readiness to leap upward at any suspicion that her duties were not worth the payment made for them and that for any reason which might include Lord Coombe she was occupying a position which was a sinecure⁴. She kept her serious little room in order herself, dusting and almost polishing the reference books, arranging and re-arranging the files with such exactness of system that she could—as is the vaunt of the model of orderly perfection—lay her hand upon any document “in the dark.” She was punctuality’s self and held herself in readiness at any moment to appear at the Duchess’ side as if a magician had instantaneously transported her there before the softly melodious⁵ private bell connected with her room had ceased to vibrate. The correctness of her deference⁶ to the convenience of Mrs. James the housekeeper⁷ in her simplest communication with Dowie quite touched that respectable person’s heart.

 

“She’s a young lady,” Mrs. James remarked to Dowie. “And a credit to you and her governess, Mrs. Dowson. Young ladies have gone almost out of fashion.”

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