Old Lord Armour looked across and answered with an amiable smile.  “It is the author the world is talking of most in these days, and the talking is no new thing.  It’s Mr. Hector MacNairn.”

No one but myself could tell how glad I was.  It seemed so right that he should be the man who had understood the deeps of a poor, passing stranger woman’s woe.  I had so loved that quiet baring of his head!  All at once I knew I should not be afraid of him.  He would understand that I could not help being shy, that it was only my nature, and that if I said things awkwardly my meanings were better than my words.  Perhaps I should be able to tell him something of what his books had been to me.  I glanced through the flowers again—­and he was looking at me!  I could scarcely believe it for a second.  But he was.  His eyes—­his wonderful eyes—­met mine.  I could not explain why they were wonderful.  I think it was the clearness and understanding in them, and a sort of great interestedness.  People sometimes look at me from curiosity, but they do not look because they are really interested.

I could scarcely look away, though I knew I must not be guilty of staring.  A footman was presenting a dish at my side.  I took something from it without knowing what it was.  Lord Armour began to talk kindly.  He was saying beautiful, admiring things of Mr. MacNairn and his work.  I listened gratefully, and said a few words myself now and then.  I was only too glad to be told of the great people and the small ones who were moved and uplifted by his thoughts.

“You admire him very much, I can see,” the amiable elderly voice said.

I could not help turning and looking up.  “It is as if a great, great genius were one’s friend—­as if he talked and one listened,” I said.  “He is like a splendid dream which has come true.”

Old Lord Armour looked at me quite thoughtfully, as if he saw something new in me.

“That is a good way of putting it, Miss Muircarrie,” he answered.  “MacNairn would like that.  You must tell him about it yourself.”

I did not mean to glance through the flowers again, but I did it involuntarily.  And I met the other eyes—­the wonderful, interested ones just as I had met them before.  It almost seemed as if he had been watching me.  It might be, I thought, because he only vaguely remembered seeing me before and was trying to recall where we had met.

When my guardian brought his men guests to the drawing-room after dinner, I was looking over some old prints at a quiet, small table.  There were a few minutes of smiling talk, and then Sir Ian crossed the room toward me, bringing some one with him.  It was Hector MacNairn he brought.

“Mr. MacNairn tells me you traveled together this afternoon without knowing each other,” he said.  “He has heard something of Muircarrie and would like to hear more, Ysobel.  She lives like a little ghost all alone in her feudal castle, Mr. MacNairn.  We can’t persuade her to like London.”