Gillian never forgot that first glimpse of June Storran.  She looked very simple and girlish as she stood there, framed in the rose-covered trellis of the porch, waiting with a slight stir of nervousness to receive the travellers.  The sunlight, filtering between the leaves of the honeysuckle, dappled her ash-blond hair with hovering flecks of gold, and a faint, shy smile curved her lips as she came forward, a little hesitatingly, to greet them.

“I am so glad to see you,” she said.  “Dan—­my husband had to go to Exeter to-day.  He was sorry he could not meet you himself at the station.”

As she and Magda stood side by side the contrast between them was curiously marked—­the one in her obviously homemade cotton frock, with her total absence of poise and her look of extreme youth hardly seeming the married woman that she was, the other gowned with the simplicity of line and detailed finish achieved only by a great dressmaker, her quiet assurance and distinctive little air of savoir vivre setting her worlds apart from Dan Storran’s young wife.

“Will you come in?  The man will see to your luggage.”

June was speaking again, still shyly but with her shyness tempered by a sensitive instinct of hospitality.  She led the way into the house and they followed her through a big, low-raftered living-room and up a flight of slippery oak stairs.

“These are your rooms,” said June, pausing at last at the end of a rambling passage-way.  “I hope”—­she flushed a little anxiously—­“I do hope you will like them.  I’ve made them as nice as I could.  But, of course”—­she glanced at Magda deprecatingly—­“you will find them very different from London rooms.”

Magda flashed her a charming smile.

“I’m sure we shall love them,” she answered, glancing about her with genuine appreciation.

The rooms were very simply furnished, but sweet and fresh with chintz and flowers, and the whitewashed ceilings, sloping at odd, unexpected angles, gave them a quaint attractiveness.  The somewhat coarse but spotless bed-linen exhaled a faint fragrance of lavender.

“You ought to charge extra for the view alone,” observed Gillian, going to one of the open lattice windows and looking across the rise and fall of hill and valley to where the distant slopes of Dartmoor, its craggy tors veiled in a grey-blue haze, rimmed the horizon.

“I hope you didn’t think the terms too high?” said June.  “You see, I—­we never had paying-guests before, and I really didn’t know what would be considered fair.  I do hope you’ll be happy and comfortable here,” she added timidly.

There was something very appealing in her ingenuousness and wistful desire to please, and Magda reassured her quickly.

“I haven’t any doubt about it,” she said, smiling.  “This is such a charming house”—­glancing about her—­“so dear and old-fashioned.  I think it’s very good of you to let us share your home for a little while.  It will be a lovely holiday for us.”