“If I knew God had him I wouldn’t mind,” said Mhor, “but I keep seeing him in a trap watching for us to come and let him out.  Oh, Peter, Peter....”

So Jean felt completely demoralised this January afternoon and sat in her most unbecoming dress, with the fire drearily, if economically, banked up with dross, hoping that no one would come near her.  And Mrs. Duff-Whalley and her daughter arrived to call.

It was at once evident that Mrs. Duff-Whalley was on a very high horse indeed.  Her accent was at its most superior—­not at all the accent she used on ordinary occasions—­and her manner was an excellent imitation of that of a lady she had met at one of the neighbouring houses and greatly admired.  Her sharp eyes were all over the place, taking in Jean’s poor little home-made frock, the shabby slippers, the dull fire, the depressed droop of her hostess’s shoulders.

Jean was sincerely sorry to see her visitors.  To cope with Mrs. Duff-Whalley and her daughter one had to be in a state of robust health and high spirits.

“We ran in, Jean—­positively one has time for nothing these days—­just to wish you a Happy New-Year though a fortnight of it is gone.  And how are you?  I do hope you had a very gay Christmas, and loads of presents.  Muriel quite passed all limits.  I told her I was quite ashamed of the shoals of presents, but of course the child has so many friends.  The Towers was full for Christmas.  Dear Gordon brought several Cambridge friends, and they were so useful at all the festivities.  Lady Tweedie said to me, ’Mrs. Duff-Whalley, you really are a godsend with all these young men in this unmanned neighbourhood.’  Always so witty, isn’t she? dear woman.  By the way, Jean, I didn’t see you at the Tweedies’ dance, or the Olivers’ theatricals.”

“No, I wasn’t there.  I hadn’t a dress that was good enough, and I didn’t want to be at the expense of hiring a carriage.”

“Oh, really!  We had a small dance at The Towers on Christmas night—­just a tiny affair, you know, really just our own house-party and such old friends as the Tweedies and the Olivers.  We would have liked to ask you and your brother—­I hear he’s home from Oxford—­but you know what it is to live in a place like Priorsford:  if you ask one you have to ask everybody—­and we decided to keep it entirely County—­you know what I mean?”

“Oh, quite,” said Jean; “I’m sure you were wise.”

“We were so sorry,” went on Mrs. Duff-Whalley, “that dear Lord Bidborough and his charming sister couldn’t come.  We have got so fond of both of them.  Muriel and Lord Bidborough have so much in common—­music, you know, and other things.  I simply couldn’t tear them away from the piano at The Towers.  Isn’t it wonderful how simple and pleasant they are considering their lineage?  Actually living in that little dog-hole of a Hillview.  I always think Miss Bathgate’s such an insolent woman; no notion of her proper place.  She looks at me as if she actually thought she was my equal, and wasn’t she positively rude to you, Muriel, when you called with some message?”