“That will mean a lovely Christmas for you,” Jean said.

Here Mhor stopped being an Athenian reveller to ask that the sofa might be pushed back.  The scene was now the palace of Theseus, and Mhor, as the Prologue, was addressing an imaginary audience with—­“Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show.”

Pamela and Jean removed themselves to the window-seat and listened while Jock, covered with an old skin rug, gave a realistic presentment of the Lion, that very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.

The ‘tedious brief’ scene was drawing to an end, when the door opened and Mrs. M’Cosh, with a scared look in her eyes and an excited squeak in her voice, announced, “Lord Bidborough.”

A slim, dark young man stood in the doorway, regarding the dishevelled room.  Jock and Mhor were still writhing on the floor, the chairs were pushed anyway, Pamela’s embroidery frame had alighted on the bureau, the rugs were pulled here and there.

Pamela gave a cry and rushed at her brother, forgetting everything in the joy of seeing him.  Then, remembering her hostess, she turned to Jean, who still sat on the window-seat, her face flushed and her eyes dark with excitement, the blood-red mandarin’s coat with its embroidery of blue and mauve and gold vivid against the dark curtains, and said, “Jean, this is Biddy!”

Jean stood up and held out a shy hand.

“And this is Jock—­and Mhor!”

“Having a great game, aren’t you?” said the newcomer.

“Not a game,” Mhor corrected him, “a play, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“No, are you?  I once played in it at the O.U.D.S.  I wanted to be Bully Bottom, but I wasn’t much good, so they made me Snug the joiner.  I remember the man who played Puck was a wonder, about as light on his feet and as swift as the real Puck.  A jolly play.”

“Biddy,” said his sister, “why didn’t you wire to me?  I have taken no rooms.”

“Oh, that’s all right—­a porter at the station, a most awfully nice chap, put me into a sort of fly and sent me to one of the hotels—­a jolly good little inn it is—­and they can put me up.  Then I asked for Hillview, mentioning the witching name of Miss Bella Bathgate, and they sent a boy with me to find the place.  Miss Bathgate sent me on here.  Beautifully managed, you see.”

He smiled lazily at his sister, who cried: 

“The same casual old Biddy!  What about dinner?”

“Mayn’t I feed with you?  I think Miss Bathgate would like me to.  And I’m devoted to stewed beef and carrots.  After cold storage food it will be a most welcome change.  But,” turning to Jean, “please forgive me arriving on you like this, and discussing board and lodgings.  It’s the most frightful cheek on my part, but, you see, Pam’s letters have made me so well acquainted with The Rigs and everyone in it that I’m afraid I don’t feel the need of ceremony.”

“We wouldn’t know what to do with ceremony here,” said Jean.  “But I do wish the room had been tidier.  You will get a bad impression of our habits—­and we are really quite neat as a rule.  Jock, take that rug back to Mrs. M’Cosh and put the sofa right.  And, Mhor, do wash your face; you’ve got it all smeared with black.”