Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments.

“You’ve a lot of books,” said Mhor.  “I’ve a lot of books too—­as many as a hundred, perhaps.  Jean teaches me poetry.  Would you like me to say some?”

“Please,” said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes.  Mhor took a long breath and began: 

  “’O take me to the Mountain O,
    Past the great pines and through the wood,
    Up where the lean hounds softly go,
    A whine for wild things’ blood,
    And madly flies the dappled roe. 
    O God, to shout and speed them there
    An arrow by my chestnut hair
    Drawn tight, and one keen glittering spear—­
    Ah, if I could!’”

For some reason best known to himself Mhor was very sparing of breath when he repeated poetry, making one breath last so long that the end of the verse was reached in a breathless whisper—­in this instance very effective.

“So that is what ‘Jean’ teaches you,” said Pamela.  “I should like to see Jean.”

“Well,” said Mhor, “come in with me now and see her.  I should be doing my lessons anyway, and you can tell her where I’ve been.”

“Won’t she think me rather pushing?” Pamela asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mhor carelessly.  “Jean’s kind to everybody—­tramps and people who sing in the street and little cats with no homes.  Hadn’t you better put on your hat?”

So Pamela obediently put on her hat and coat and went with her new friends down the road a few steps and up the flagged path to the front door of the funny little house that kept its back turned to its parvenu neighbours, and its eyes lifted to the hills.

In Mhor led her, Peter following hard behind, through a square, low-roofed entrance-hall with a polished floor, into a long room with one end coming to a point in an odd-shaped window, rather like the bow of a ship.

A girl was sitting in the window with a large basket of darning beside her.

“Jean,” cried Mhor as he burst in, “here’s the Honourable.  I asked her to come in and see you.  She’s afraid of Bella Bathgate.”

“Oh, do come in,” said Jean, standing up with the stocking she was darning over one hand.  “Take this chair; it’s the most comfortable.  I do hope Mhor hasn’t been worrying you?”

“Indeed he hasn’t,” said Pamela; “I was delighted to see him.  But please don’t let me interrupt your work.”

“The boys make such big holes,” said Jean, picking up a damp handkerchief that lay beside her; and then with a tremble in her voice, “I’ve been crying,” she added.

“So I see,” said Pamela.  “I’m sorry.  Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing in the least wrong,” Jean said, swallowing hard, “only that I’m so silly.”  And presently she found herself pouring out her troubled thoughts about David, about the lions that she feared stood in his path at Oxford, about the hole his going made in the little household at The Rigs.  It was a comfort to tell it all to this delightful-looking stranger who seemed to understand in the most wonderful way.