clear pools, and I think she is utterly sincere.”
Her daughter nodded. “I know, but she is inarticulate, isn’t she? I felt ashamed of talking so much, but what could I do? . . . This is Knebworth. Here lives one Mrs. Heggie, with at least one daughter and, I daresay, others that we know not of. Quite a different type, to judge from the house. . . . Isn’t this fun? Let’s greet the unknown with a cheer. An electric bell this time, and, I expect, a much smarter parlour-maid. . . I thought so.”
She followed her mother and the short skirts and high heels of the maid through an ornate little hall, complete with a fireplace and ingle-neuk and red tiles, into the drawing-room. It was a room of many corners and odd-shaped windows, comfortably furnished, the walls hung with reproductions of famous pictures. Tall vases filled with honesty and cape-gooseberries stood about, and a good fire burned on the red brick hearth. A small book-case fitted into a niche held a selection of the works of the most modern writers, while on a table lay some magazines.
Mrs. Heggie was seated on a low chair beside the fire, with a writing-pad on her knee, and a bottle of ink perched precariously on the rim of the fender. As she rose to greet her visitors paper and envelopes and loose letters fell from her like leaves in an autumn gale. She was a tall, stout woman with a round face and an all-enveloping manner.
“Well now,” she said, as she held out one hand to Lady Jane and the other to Nicole, “isn’t this nice? and to think I nearly went out this afternoon! If it hadn’t been for some letters that I knew simply must go to-day nothing would have kept me in.”
“But,” said Lady Jane, “I’m afraid we are interrupting you—your letters——”
“Letters,” Mrs. Heggie said airily, thrusting her visitors into two arm-chairs, “they can wait: it’s hours till post-time, any way.” She subsided into her own low chair and asked in tones of deep interest, “And how d’you think you’re going to like Kirkmeikle?”
“Very much indeed,” Lady Jane replied. “We were lucky to get such a nice house. You know it, of course—the Harbour House?”
“I don’t. The Harbour House is a sealed book to me, and I’ve always had the greatest desire to see inside it. There is something about it—the crow-step gables and long, narrow windows facing the sea—that fascinates me. I’ve often tried to see in when I passed! Mrs. Swinton was a queer woman. She never visited the other people in Kirkmeikle. I suppose she had her own friends and kept to them, and of course she was quite right, if that was the way she was made. People are so different. Now, I’m miserable if I don’t know everybody. I don’t think I’m a busy-body, but I do take the greatest interest in my neighbours and their concerns, and if I can do anything to oblige them I’m just delighted. Rich or poor, I like people and want to be friends with them.”
“Hurrah!” said Nicole. “I feel like that too. Life is much too short to be exclusive in. One misses so much.”
Mrs. Heggie beamed at the girl. “That’s what I always say. You’ll find Kirkmeikle very friendly—what there’s of it. I suppose everybody has called?”
“Let me see,” Nicole said gravely: “Miss Symington, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert, Dr. Kilgour and Miss Kilgour, Mr. and Mrs. Buckler—you and your daughter.”
Mrs. Heggie nodded her head at each name. “That’s all,” she said. “Are you returning all the calls to-day?”
“We hope to,” said Lady Jane, the corners of her mouth turning up. “We have just seen Miss Symington and are going on to the Bucklers.”
Mrs. Heggie sat forward. “You’ve seen Miss Symington? She’s very nice, quiet and solid, but very nice. Does a lot of good with her money. She’s very rich, you know, though you wouldn’t think so to look at her. She’s like her father: all he cared for was missionaries and evangelistic meetings. D’you know, every week-end Miss Symington has a minister of sorts staying with her! She keeps up the Mission-hall her father started in Langtoun for his workers, and the preacher stays with her. Of course she isn’t quite young; she must be forty-five anyway, and she’s so discreet that it’s quite all right, but I always expect to hear that one of them is going to hang up his hat—as the saying is.”
The visitors were silent, not quite knowing what comment to make, and Mrs. Heggie continued:
“You’ll like the Bucklers. Somebody told me that Mr. Buckler had quite a distinguished career in India, and I must say they are most obliging neighbours. I’m sorry for poor Mrs. Buckler with her servants. Now, you’ll stay and have tea; I’ll ring for it at once so as not to hinder you. It’s early, I know, but you may not be offered it at the Bucklers, for they have a housemaid who objects to giving tea to visitors unless they come at tea-time. No? Oh, don’t rise. You’re not going already? Joan may be in any minute. She’s all I have now. My husband died three years ago, and two boys in the Argentine. Joan is inclined to be literary—— Well, if you must go. . . . When will you come for a meal? Let me see, this is Monday—Would lunch on Wednesday suit you? Friday, then? we must fix a day.”
“If you don’t mind,” Lady Jane said in her gentle way, “we won’t fix anything just now. We are still rather busy settling down and would rather have no engagements yet awhile. Might we, perhaps, propose ourselves for tea one day? That will be delightful, and you must come and see us in our funny little house when you can spare time.”
“I’ll do that,” Mrs. Heggie promised heartily, “and you come here whenever you like. Just run in, you know. I’m always sitting here—except when I’m out somewhere. And when you feel like accepting invitations you’ll come here first, won’t you? I’ll give a dinner for you. . . .”
Half an hour later when Joan came in and asked casually if there had been any visitors, her mother replied with studied carelessness, “Only Lady Jane Rutherfurd and her daughter. They were here quite twenty minutes—the civilest people I ever met. And I didn’t ask one single question, though I’m just dying to know what brought them to Kirkmeikle. They’re charming, perfectly charming.”
Joan sat down heavily in a chair. “For any favour, mother,” she said, “give that worn-out adjective a rest. Whenever you ask what sort of person some one is you’re told—‘Charming,’ and when you meet her she’s nothing of the kind. Charm is not the common thing people make it out to be.”
“Oh well, Joan, I’m not going to quarrel with you about adjectives. You know far more about them than I do, but when you meet the Rutherfurds you’ll be charmed with them, I know that. . . . The daughter looked at your books—what a nice friend she’ll be for you. . . .”
Mr. and Mrs. Buckler received their callers with less excitement than Mrs. Heggie.
Nicole smiled up at Mr. Buckler as he put her into a carved chair with a brilliant embroidered cushion for a seat, saying: “The East in Kirkmeikle! I smelt it as soon as I came into the hall.”
“You recognise it? You know India?”
“Only as a Paget M.P.—I was out for a cold weather when I first grew up, just after the War. I went out to an uncle and aunt who happened to be there. . . . Have you been home long?”
Mr. Buckler, a thin man with tired eyes in a sun-dried face, drew up a chair beside Nicole.
“I retired about five years ago,” he said; “glad enough at the time to get away, but looking back at the life now, it seems the best on earth. Distance lending enchantment! I dare say if I went back I would be disillusioned. It’s not
