Looking through the local paper she found in the list of residents:
Sidcote--Mr. and Mrs. Robert Lethbridge and Miss Walker. She wrote to
Robin and asked if she might call on his wife.

A mile of hot road through the town and inland brought her to a door in a
lane and a thatched cottage with a little lawn behind it. From the
doorstep she could see two figures, a man and a woman, lying back in
garden chairs. Inside the house she heard the persistent, energetic sound
of hammering. The woman got up and came to her. She was young, pink-faced
and golden-haired, and she said she was Miss Walker, Mrs. Lethbridge's
sister.

A tall, lean, gray man rose from the garden chair, slowly, dragging
himself with an invalid air. His eyes stared, groping, blurred films that
trembled between the pouch and droop of the lids; long cheeks, deep
grooved, dropped to the infirm mouth that sagged under the limp mustache.
That was Robin.

He became agitated when he saw her. "Poor Robin," she thought. "All these
years, and it's too much for him, seeing me." Presently he dragged himself
from the lawn to the house and disappeared through the French window where
the hammering came from.

"Have I frightened him away?" she said.

"Oh, no, he's always like that when he sees strange faces."

"My face isn't exactly strange."