“I remember when my brother Biddy went to Oxford,” Pamela told her.  “I felt just as you do.  Our parents were dead, and I was five years older than my brother, and took care of him just as you do of your David.  I was afraid for him, for he had too much money, and that is much worse than having too little—­but he didn’t get changed or spoiled, and to this day he is the same, my own old Biddy.”

Jean dried her eyes and went on with her darning, and Pamela walked about looking at the books and talking, taking in every detail of this girl and her so individual room, the golden-brown hair, thick and wavy, the golden-brown eyes, “like a trout-stream in Connemara,” that sparkled and lit and saddened as she talked, the mobile, humorous mouth, the short, straight nose and pointed chin, the straight-up-and-down belted brown frock, the whole toning so perfectly with the room with its polished floor and old Persian rugs, the pale yellow walls (even on the dullest day they seemed to hold some sunshine) hung with coloured prints in old rosewood frames—­“Saturday Morning,” engraved (with many flourishes) by T. Burke, engraver to His Serene Highness the Reigning Landgrave of Hesse Darmstadt; “The Cut Finger,” by David Wilkie—­those and many others.  The furniture was old and good, well kept and well polished, so that the shabby, friendly room had that comfortable air of well-being that only careful housekeeping can give.  Books were everywhere:  a few precious ones behind glass doors, hundreds in low bookcases round the room.

“I needn’t ask you if you are fond of reading,” Pamela said.

“Much too fond,” Jean confessed.  “I’m a ‘rake at reading.’”

“You know the people,” said Pamela, “who say, ’Of course I love reading, but I’ve no time, alas!’ as if everyone who loves reading doesn’t make time.”

As they talked, Pamela realised that this girl who lived year in and year out in a small country town was in no way provincial, for all her life she had been free of the company of the immortals.  The Elizabethans she knew by heart, poetry was as daily bread.  Rosalind in Arden, Viola in Illyria, were as real to her as Bella Bathgate next door.  She had taken to herself as friends (being herself all the daughters of her father’s house) Maggie Tulliver, Ethel Newcome, Beatrix Esmond, Clara Middleton, Elizabeth Bennet——­

The sound of the gong startled Pamela to her feet.

“You don’t mean to say it’s luncheon time already?  I’ve taken up your whole morning.”

“It has been perfectly delightful,” Jean assured her.  “Do stay a long time at Hillview and come in every day.  Don’t let Bella Bathgate frighten you away.  She isn’t used to letting her rooms, and her manners are bad, and her long upper lip very quelling; but she’s really the kindest soul on earth....  Would you come in to tea this afternoon?  Mrs. M’Cosh—­that’s our retainer—­bakes rather good scones.  I would ask you to stay to luncheon, but I’m afraid there mightn’t be enough to go round.”