“Haw, haw,” laughed Jock, who was consistently amused by Mhor and his antics.  “I’m sorry for your friends, old chap.  Do I know them?”

“Well,” said Mhor, “there’s Napoleon and Dick Turpin and Graham of Claverhouse and Prince Charlie and——­”

“Mhor—­you’re talking too much,” said David, who was jotting down figures in a notebook.

“It’s to be hoped,” said Jean to Mrs. M’Cosh, “that the honourable lady will suit Bella Bathgate, for Bella, honest woman, won’t put herself about to suit anybody.  But she’s been a good neighbour to us.  I always feel so safe with her near; she’s equal to anything from a burst pipe to a broken arm....  I do hope that landlord of ours in London will never take it into his head to come back and live in Priorsford.  If we had to leave The Rigs and Bella Bathgate I simply don’t know what we’d do.”

“We could easy get a hoose wi’ mair conveniences” Mrs. M’Cosh reminded her.  She had laid down the tray again and stood with her hands on her hips and her head on one side, deeply interested “Thae wee new villas in the Langhope Road are a fair treat, wi’ a pantry aff the dining-room an’ hot and cold everywhere.”

“Villas,” said Jean—­“hateful new villas!  What are conveniences compared to old thick walls and queer windows and little funny stairs?  Besides, The Rigs has a soul.”

“Oh, mercy!” said Mrs. M’Cosh, picking up the tray and moving at last to the door, “that’s fair heathenish!”

Jean laughed as the door shut on their retainer, and perched herself on the end of the big old-fashioned sofa drawn up at one side of the fire.  She wore a loose stockinette brown dress and looked rather like a wood elf of sorts with her golden-brown hair and eyes.

“If I were rich,” she said, “I would buy an annuity for Mrs. M’Cosh of at least L200 a year.  When you think that she once had a house and a husband, and a best room with an overmantel and a Brussels carpet, and lost them all, and is contented to be a servant to us, with no prospect of anything for her old age but the workhouse or the charity of relations, and keeps cheery and never makes a moan and never loses her interest in things ...”

“But you’re not rich,” said Jock.

“No,” said Jean ruefully.  “Isn’t it odd that no one ever leaves us a legacy?  But I needn’t say that, for it would be much odder if anyone did.  I don’t think there is a single human being in the world entitled to leave us a penny piece.  We are destitute of relations....  Oh, well, I daresay we’ll get on without a legacy, but for your comfort I’ll read to you about the sort of house we would have if some kind creature did leave us one.”

She dived for a copy of Country Life that was lying on the sofa, and turned to the advertisements of houses to let and sell.

“It is good of Mrs. Jowett letting us have this every week.  It’s a great support to me.  I wonder if anyone ever does buy these houses, or if they are merely there to tantalize poor folk?  Will this do?  ’A finely timbered sporting estate—­seventeen bedrooms——­’”