She shook her head.

“Then get on to it quick—­and stick at it.  Don’t waste your time writing the usual type of sentimental ballad-song—­a degree or two below par.”

Nan was silent for a few minutes.  Then: 

“Sandy,” she said, “you’re rather like a dose of physic—­wholesome but unpalatable.  I’ll get to work to-morrow.  Now let’s go and forage for some food.  You’ve made me fearfully hungry—­like a long sermon in church.”

Christmas came, bringing with it, at Roger’s suggestion, a visit from Lord St. John, and his presence at the house worked wonders in the way of transforming the general atmosphere.  Even Lady Gertrude thawed beneath the charm of his kindly, whimsical personality, and to Nan the few days he spent at the Hall were of more value than a dozen tonics.  She was no longer shut in alone with her own thoughts—­with him she could talk freely and naturally.  Even the under-current of hostile criticism of which she was almost hourly conscious ceased to fret her nerves.

Insensibly Lord St. John’s evident affection for his niece and quiet appreciation of her musicianship influenced Lady Gertrude for the time being, softening her attitude towards her future daughter-in-law, even though it brought her no nearer understanding her.  Isobel, alertly capable of adapting herself to the prevailing atmosphere, reflected in her manner the same change.  She had long since learned to keep the private workings of her mind locked up—­when it seemed advisable.

“I’m glad to see you in what will one day be your own home, Nan,” said Lord St. John.  They were sitting alone together in the West Parlour, chatting in the cosy intimacy of the firelight.

“I’d rather you saw it when it is my own home,” she returned with a rueful smile.  “It will look very different then, I hope.”

“Yet I’m glad to see it now,” he repeated.

There was a slight emphasis on the word “now,” and Nan glanced up in surprise.

“Why now particularly?” she asked, smiling.  “Are you going to cold-shoulder me after I’m married?”

Lord St. John shook his head.

“That’s very likely, isn’t it?” he said, smiling.  “No, my dear, that’s not the reason.”  He paused as though searching for words, then went on quietly:  “The silver chord is getting a bit frayed, you know, Nan.  I’m an old man, and I’m just beginning to know it.”

She caught her breath quickly and her face whitened.  Then she forced a laugh.

“Nonsense, Uncle David!  Kitty always declares you’re the youngest of us all.”

His eyes smiled back at her.

“Unfortunately, my dear, Time takes no account of a juvenile spirit.  His job is with this body of ours.  But the spirit,” he added dreamingly, “and its youthfulness—­that’s for eternity.”

“But you look quite well—­quite well,” she insisted.  And her manner was the more positive because in her inmost mind she thought she could detect a slight increase of that frail appearance she had first noticed on Penelope’s wedding-day.