though he felt bound in duty to warn Jock that it wasn't what it was in his young days, and was indeed hardly fit now for a white man.
Jock felt that Mrs. Hope and Mr. Jowett were wise and experienced, but they were old. In Lord Bidborough he found one who had come hot foot from the ends of the earth. He had seen with his own eyes, and he could tell Jock tales that made the coveted far lands live before him; and Jock fell down and worshipped.
Through the day, while the two boys were interned in school, Pamela took her brother the long walks over the hills that had delighted her days in Priorsford. Jean sometimes went with them, but more often she stayed at home. It was her mission in life, she said, to stay at home and have meals ready for people when they returned, and it was much better that the brother and sister should have their walks alone, she told herself. Excessive self-confidence was not one of Jean's faults. She was much afraid of boring people by her presence, and shrank from being the third that constitutes "a crowd."
One afternoon Lewis Elliot called at The Rigs.
"Sitting alone, Jean? Well, it's nice to find you in. I thought you would be out with your new friends."
"Lord Bidborough has motored Pamela down Tweed to see some people," Jean explained. "They asked me to go with them, but I thought I might perhaps be in the way. Lord Bidborough is frightfully pleased to be able to hire a motor to drive. On Saturday he has promised to take the boys to Dryburgh and to the Eildon Hills. Mhor is very keen to see for himself where King Arthur is buried, and make a search for the horn!"
"I see. It's a pity it isn't a better time of year. December days are short for excursions…. Isn't Biddy a delightful fellow?"
"Yes. Jock and Mhor worship him. One word from him is more to them than all the wisdom I'm capable of. It isn't quite fair. After all, I've had them so long, and they've only known him for a day or two. No, I don't think I'm jealous. I'm—I'm hurt!" and to Lewis Elliot's great discomfort Jean took out her handkerchief and openly wiped her eyes, and then, putting her head on the table, cried.
He sat in much embarrassment, making what he meant to be comforting ejaculations, until Jean stopped crying and laughed.
"It's wretched of me to make you so uncomfortable. I don't know what's happened to me. I've suddenly got so silly. And I don't think I like charming people. Charm is a merciless sort of gift … and I know he will take Pamela away, and she made things so interesting. Every day since he came I seem to have got lonelier and lonelier, and the sight of your familiar face and the sound of your kind voice finished me…. I'm quite sensible now, so don't go away. Tea will be in in a minute, and the boys. Isn't it fine that Davie will be home to-morrow? D'you think he'll be changed?"
Lewis Elliot stayed to tea, and Jock and Mhor fell on him with acclamation, and told him wonderful tales of their new friend, and never noticed the marks of tears on Jean's face.
"Jean, what is Lord Bidborough's Christian name?" Jock asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Richard Plantagenet, I should think."
"Really, Jean?"
"Why not? But you'd better ask him. Are you going, Cousin Lewis? When will you come and see Davie?"
"Let me see. I'm lunching at Hillview on Friday May I come in after luncheon? Thanks. You must all come up to Laverlaw one day next week. The puppies are growing up, Mhor, and you're missing all their puppyhood; that's a pity."
Later in the evening, just before Mhor's bedtime Lord Bidborough came to The Rigs. Pamela was resting, he explained, or writing letters, or doing something else, and he had come in to pass the time of day with them.
"The time of night, you mean," said Mhor ruefully "In ten minutes I'll have to go to bed."
"Had you a nice time this afternoon?" Jean asked.
"Oh, ripping! Coming up by Tweed in the darkening was heavenly. I wish you had been with us, Miss Jean. Why wouldn't you come?"
"I had things to do," said Jean primly.
"Couldn't the things have waited? Good days in December are precious, Miss Jean—and Pam and I are going away next week. Promise you will go with us next time—on Saturday, to the Eildon Hills."
"What's your Christian name, please?" Jock broke in suddenly, remembering the discussion. "Jean says it's Richard Plantagenet—is it?"
Jean flushed an angry pink, and said sharply:
"Don't be silly, Jock. I was only talking nonsense."
"Well, what is it?" Jock persisted.
"It's not quite Richard Plantagenet, but it's pretty bad. My name given me by my godmother and godfathers is—Quintin Reginald Fuerbras."
"Gosh, Maggie!" ejaculated Jock. "Earls in the streets of Cork!"
"I knew," said Jean, "that it would be something very twopence-coloured."
"It's not, I grant, such a jolly name as yours," said Lord Bidborough—"Jean Jardine."
"Oh, mine is Penny-plain," said Jean hurriedly.
"Must we always call you Lord?" Mhor asked.
"Of course you must," Jean said. "Really, Mhor, you and Jock are sometimes very stupid."
"Indeed you must not," said Lord Bidborough. "Forgive me, Miss Jean, if I am undermining your authority, but, really, one must have some say in what one is to be called. Why not call me Biddy?"
"That might be too familiar," said Jock. "I think I would rather call you Richard Plantagenet."
"Because it isn't my name?"
"It sort of suits you," Jock said.
"I like long names," said Mhor.
"Will you call me Richard Plantagenet, Miss Jean?"
The yellow lights in Jean's eyes sparkled. "If you'll call me Penny-plain," she said.
"Then that's a bargain, though I don't think either of us is well suited. However—now that we are really friends, what did you do this afternoon that was so very important?"
"Talked to Lewis Elliot for one thing: he came to tea."
"I see. An excellent fellow, Lewis. He's a relation of yours, isn't he?"
"A very distant one, but we have so few relations we are only too glad to claim him. He has been a very good friend to us always…. Mhor, you really must go to bed now."
"Oh, all right, but I don't think it's very polite to go to bed when a visitor's in. It might make him think he ought to go away."
Lord Bidborough laughed, and assured Mhor that he appreciated his delicacy of feeling.
"There's a thing I want to ask you, anyway," said Mhor.—"Yes, I'm going to bed, Jean. Whether do you think Quentin Durward or Charlie Chaplin would be the better man in a fight?"
Lord Bidborough gave the matter some earnest thought, and decided on Quentin Durward.
"I told you that," said. Jock to Mhor. "Now, perhaps,
