Peter Reid quite shone through the meal.  He remembered episodes of his boyhood, forgotten for forty years, and told them to Jock and Mhor, who listened with most gratifying interest.  He questioned Jock about Priorsford Grammar School, and recalled stories of the masters who had taught there in his day.

Jean told him about David going to Oxford, and about Great-aunt Alison who had “come out at the Disruption”—­about her father’s life in India, and about her mother, and he became every minute more human and interested.  He even made one or two small jokes which were received with great applause by Jock and Mhor, who were grateful to anyone who tried, however feebly, to be funny.  They would have said with Touchstone, “It is meat and drink to me to see a clown.”

Jean watched with delight her rather difficult guest blossom into affability.  “You are looking better already,” she told him.  “If you stayed here for a week and rested and Mrs. M’Cosh cooked you light, nourishing food and Mhor didn’t make too much noise, I’m sure you would feel quite well again.  And it does seem such a pity to pay hotel bills when we want you here.”

Hotel bills!  Peter Reid looked sharply at her.  Did she imagine, this girl, that hotel bills were of any moment to him?  Then he looked down at his shabby clothes and recalled their conversation and owned that her mistake was not unjustifiable.

But how extraordinary it was!  The instinct that makes people wish to stand well with the rich and powerful he could understand and commend, but the instinct that opens wide doors to the shabby and the unsuccessful was not one that he knew anything about:  it was certainly not an instinct for this world as he knew it.

Just as they were finishing tea Mrs. M’Cosh ushered in Miss Pamela Reston.

“You did say I might come in when I liked,” she said as she greeted Jean.  “I’ve had tea, thank you.  Mhor, you haven’t been to see me to-day.”

“I would have been,” Mhor assured her, “but Jean said I’d better not.  Do you invite me to come to-morrow?”

“I do.”

“There, Jean,” said Mhor.  “You can’t un-vite me after that.”

“Indeed she can’t,” said Pamela.  “Jock, this is the book I told you about....  Please, Miss Jean, don’t let me disturb you.”

“We’ve finished,” said Jean.  “May I introduce Mr. Reid?”

Pamela shook hands and at once proceeded to make herself so charming that Peter Reid was galvanised into a spirited conversation.  Pamela had brought her embroidery-frame with her, and she sat on the sofa and sorted out silks, and talked and laughed as if she had sat there off and on all her life.  To Jean, looking at her, it seemed impossible that two days ago none of them had beheld her.  It seemed—­absurdly enough—­that the room could never have looked quite right when it had not this graceful creature with her soft gowns and her pearls, her embroidery-frame and heaped, bright-hued silks sitting by the fire.