Mawson smiled happily and departed to put on her hat, while Pamela sat down to compose telegrams.

These finished, she began, as was her almost daily custom, to scribble a letter to her brother.

“c/o Miss B. BATHGATE,
  HILLVIEW, PRIORSFORD,
      SCOTLAND.

“BIDDY DEAR,—­The beds and chairs and cushions are all stuffed with cannon-balls, and the walls are covered with enlarged photographs of men with whiskers, and Bella Bathgate won’t speak to me, partly because she evidently hates the look of me, and partly because I didn’t eat the duck’s egg she gave me for breakfast.  But the yolk of it was orange, Biddy.  How could I eat it?

“I have sent out S.O.S. signals for necessaries in the way of rugs and cushions.  Life as bald and unadorned as it presents itself to Miss Bathgate is really not quite decent.  I wish she would speak to me, but I fear she considers me beneath contempt.

“What happens when you arrive in a place like Priorsford and stay in lodgings?  Do you remain seated alone with your conscience, or do people call?

“Perhaps I shall only have Mawson to converse with.  It might be worse.  I don’t think I told you about Mawson.  She has been a housemaid in Grosvenor Street for some years, and she maided me once when Julie was on holiday, so when that superior damsel refused to accompany me on this trek I gladly left her behind and brought Mawson in her place.

“She is really very little use as a maid, but her conversation is pleasing and she has a most cheery grin.  She reads the works of Florence Barclay, and doesn’t care for music-halls—­’low I call them, Miss.’  I asked her if she were fond of music, and she said, ‘Oh yes, Miss,’ and then with a coy glance, ‘I ply the mandoline.’  I think she is about fifty, and not at all good-looking, so she will be a much more comfortable person in the house than Julie, who would have moped without admirers.

“Well, at present Mawson and I are rather like Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday on the island....”

* * * * *

Pamela stopped and looked out of the window for inspiration.  Miss Bathgate’s parlour was not alluring, but the view from it was a continual feast—­spreading fields, woods that in this yellowing time of the year were a study in old gold, the winding river, and the blue hills beyond.  Pamela saw each detail with delight; then, letting her eyes come nearer home, she studied the well-kept garden belonging to her landlady.  On the wall that separated it from the next garden a small boy and a dog were seated.

Pamela liked boys, so she smiled encouragingly to this one, the boy responding by solemnly raising his cap.

Pamela leaned out of the window.

“Good morning,” she said.  “What’s your name?”

“My name’s Gervase Taunton, but I’m called ‘the Mhor.’  This is Peter Jardine,” patting the dog’s nose.