Robin.  Among the mountains and by the deep-hued seas of Greece he had foreseen and wondered about Robin.  Now Robin was here; the great change was accomplished.  Probably Rosamund and he, Dion, would never again be alone with their love.  Other children, perhaps, would come.  Even if they did not, Robin would pervade their lives, in long clothes, short skirts, knickerbockers, trousers.  He might, of course, some day choose a profession which would carry him to some distant land:  to an Indian jungle or a West African swamp.  But by that time his parents would be middle-aged people.  And how would their love be then?  Dion knew that now, when Rosamund and he were still young, both less than thirty, he would give a hundred Robins, even if they were all his own Robins, to keep his one Rosamund.  That was probably quite natural now, for Robin was really rather inexpressive in the midst of his most unbridled demonstrations.  When he was calm and blew bubbles he had charm; when he was red and furious he had a certain power; when he sneezed he had pathos; when he slept the serenity of him might be felt; but he would mean very much more presently.  He would grow, and surely his father’s love for him would grow.  But could it ever grow to the height, the flowering height, of the husband’s love for Rosamund?  Dion already felt certain that it never could, that it was his destiny to be husband rather than parent, the eternal lover rather than the eternal father.  Rosamund’s destiny was perhaps to be the eternal mother.  She had never been exactly a lover.  Perhaps her remarkable and beautiful purity of disposition had held her back from being that.  Force, energy, vitality, strong feelings, she had; but the peculiar something in which body seems mingled with soul, in which soul seems body and body soul, was apparently lacking in her.  Dion had perhaps never, with full consciousness, missed that element in her till Robin made his appearance; but Robin, in his bubbling innocence, and almost absurd consciousness of himself and of others, did many things that were not unimportant.  He even had the shocking impertinence to open his father’s eyes, and to show him truths in a bright light—­truths which, till now, had remained half-hidden in shadow; babyhood enlightened youth, the youth persisting hardily because it had never sown wild oats.  Robin did not know that; he knew, in fact scarcely anything except when he wanted nourishment and when he desired repose.  He also knew his mother, knew her mystically and knew her greedily, with knowledge which seemed of God, and with an awareness whose parent was perhaps a vital appetite.  At other people he gazed and bubbled but with a certain infantile detachment, though his nurse, of course, declared that she had never known a baby to take such intelligent notice of all created things in its neighborhood.  “He knows,” she asseverated, with the air of one versed in mysteries, “he knows, does little master, who’s who as well as any one, and a deal better than some that prides themselves on this and that, a little upsy-daisy-dear!”