with alacrity and went out, leaving the door open.
“Well?” said Nicole, looking from her mother to her cousin.
“A dear boy,” said Lady Jane.
“He has Bice’s beautiful eyes,” Barbara said, “and what lashes to waste on a boy!”
Nicole poked the fire. “I like his grave way of speaking,” she said, “and that sweet infrequent smile. He nearly went out of the carriage window trying to find out how the Forth Bridge is made. I’ve promised to take him to see it close at hand. He isn’t superior, Babs, and he tells me he’s ‘frightfully bucked’ to be here. Coming up alone in a sleeper had been a great thrill. I think you were right, Mums; he’ll be quite happy. Though speechless at present, he talked a lot on the way. He tells me his chief horror is what he calls ‘civilisation,’ meaning, I find, char-a-bancs that popularise remote places. He says, personally, he can’t get far enough away from people and shops. His idea of bliss is Loch Bervie—forty miles of rough road between you and a railway station. They spent the summer there last year, you remember? and he got a taste for solitude—— Dear me, to judge from the noise our whole staff is helping him to unpack.”
The next morning Nicole set out with the guest to climb among the rocks and watch the sea-birds, for Arthur, it turned out, was deeply interested in birds.
On their way home they met Simon Beckett striding along as if celebrating some victory over words. They stopped to talk and Arthur was introduced—“Arthur Dennis. Driven from home in the holidays by scarlet fever.”
“Rough luck!” said Simon. “What school are you at? No? That’s my old prep. Is Snooks still there? By Jove . . .”
Nicole stood watching the two eager speakers, well pleased to be forgotten, realising that here was a solution of the entertainment problem. If only Mr. Beckett in his spare time would take some notice of Arthur, what a help it would be!
They strolled home together and Simon was easily persuaded to join them at luncheon. Nicole managed to whisper to Arthur that this was the Everest Beckett, and his eyes were large in adoration. Later, when Simon invited him to go to the golf course with him and have tea at his rooms, he went, almost dazed with happiness.
“And, Arthur,” Nicole said to him, as Simon Beckett was taking leave of her mother, “if there’s another boy to tea, Alastair Symington, be kind to him, won’t you? I know how good you are to Barnabas, and this poor little chap has no father or mother. Of course, he’s much too young for you, only about six, but Mr. Beckett makes quite a companion of him.”
There followed for Arthur a fortnight of complete bliss. There are worse fates than to be an only boy in a household of women, each of them at his beck and call. Mrs. Martin cooked only what she knew he liked, and Christina cared not how muddy his boots were, or how many snowy towels he wiped half-washed hands on. Beenie tidied up after him without a word: a smile of approval from the young sultan was all they asked. Nicole was his very good friend, ready always for fun; Barbara patiently stitched sails for the boats he made; “Cousin Jane” was the one he liked best to sit with him after he was in bed and tell him stories of Rutherfurd, and Ronnie and Archie.
Almost at once Arthur developed a strong affection for young Alastair, “The Sprat” he called him, and was never so happy as when he had him trotting at his heels. At the same time he was a frank and fearless commentator, and did not hide his disapproval of certain traits in the Sprat’s character.
One day Simon Beckett suggested that he would take the two boys to St. Andrews, show them the places of interest, and give them luncheon at an hotel, and asked Barbara and Nicole to be of the party. Barbara happened to be engaged, but Nicole was delighted to accept the invitation.
Simon had meant to go by car, but the boys were both keen on a train journey, so they set off, crowding into a carriage that already contained an elderly stout man and his equally stout wife. Nicole and Simon sat facing each other in the middle and the boys were given the corner seats.
As there were strangers present Arthur never uttered a word, but looked out at the dreary winter fields with an impassive face. Alastair, alas! seemed unaware of how the best people behave when travelling. First he removed his hat, then he drew from his pocket a mouth-organ and, sitting hunched up in his seat, began to play on it earnestly.
Arthur stood it for a minute or two, then he leant forward and said, “Stop that, can’t you!” But Alastair, like the deaf adder, stopped his ears instead and went on playing, his usually pale face quite pink with exertion, his hair standing up in what Gentle Annie called “a cow’s lick.”
“Pan in an overcoat!” whispered Nicole to Simon. “Did you ever see such a freakish little face?”
Again Arthur leant forward and admonished his friend:
“Don’t behave like a beastly tripper.”
Alastair stopped playing, but still holding the mouth-organ to his mouth with both hands, said simply, “I am a tripper,” and started again. With a snort of wrath Arthur turned away and devoted his whole attention to the landscape.
Later, at luncheon in the large and splendid hotel, he resumed the subject. “Sprat, why d’you like playing a mouth-organ when you’re among people you don’t know?” he asked when they were both attacking plates of roast-beef, Alastair very carefully, for he had only lately been promoted from a fork and spoon to a knife and fork. “Why do you?”
Alastair held his knife and fork upright, which he had been told not to do, as he considered the question.
“Because it makes me happy,” he said at last.
“But—don’t you mind people seeing you play the fool?”
Alastair shook his head:
“Then,” said Arthur, “I believe you’re Labour.”
“Yes,” said Alastair.
“What is Labour, Sprat?” Nicole asked him.
“It’s what Annie is. There was an Election in Kirkmeikle once, and I wore a red ribbon to show I was Labour.”
“And I suppose,” Arthur said bitterly, “that you like char-a-bancs full of trippers throwing empty ginger-beer bottles about?”
Alastair lifted his head, his eyes the eyes of one beholding a vision.
“How lovely!” he said.
Nicole and Simon laughed, and Nicole said: “Never mind, Sprat, I like char-a-bancs and trippers and ginger-beer bottles too!”
“I bet Mr. Beckett doesn’t,” Arthur declared.
Alastair looked wistfully at his friend, who said, “Have some ginger-beer now, both of you,” and the boys were nothing loath.
“Now we must explore,” Nicole said, when the excellent meal was over.
“Shall we buy a guide-book?” Simon asked. “Or how shall we manage?”
“Just let’s wander down South Street. I was here once as a child and I remember we went along South Street to the Tower and the dungeons.”
“I want to see the dungeons,”
