To be sure, he was good and kind, the dear, kind old Robin he had always been.

She was grateful that he was not more lover-like according to her ideals.

If he had taken her in his arms and kissed her passionately like that other--she smelt lilies of the valley where Robin Drummond smelt the wild thyme--she could not have endured it.

As it was, she answered him sweetly.
"I know you will be good to me, Robin.

When were you ever anything but good ?" Then he kissed her, a light kiss that brushed her lips.