“But,” Jean objected, “we’re not in the least like people in a book.  I often wonder why Priorsford is so unlike a story-book little town.  We’re not nearly interested enough in each other for one thing.  We don’t gossip to excess.  Everyone goes his or her own way.  In books people do things or are suspected of doing things, and are immediately cut by a feverishly interested neighbourhood.  I can’t imagine that happening in Priorsford.  No one ever does anything very striking, but if they did I’m sure they wouldn’t be ostracised.  Nobody would care much, except perhaps Mrs. Hope, and she would only be amused.”

“Mrs. Hope?”

“Have you noticed a whitewashed house standing among trees about half a mile down Tweed from the bridge?  That is Hopetoun, and Mrs. Hope and her daughter live there.”

“Nice?”

Jean nodded her head like a wise mandarin.  “You must meet Mrs. Hope.  To describe her is far beyond my powers.”

“I see.  Well, go on with the houses on the hill.  Who lives in the one at the corner with the well-kept garden?”

“The Prestons.  Mr. Preston is a lawyer, but he isn’t much like a lawyer in appearance—­not yellow and parchmenty, you know.  He’s a good shot and an ardent fisher, what Sir Walter would have called ‘a just leevin’ man for a country writer.’  There are several daughters, all musical, and it is a very hospitable, cheerful house.  Next the Prestons live the Williamsons.  Ordinary nice people.  There is really nothing to say about them....  The house after that is Woodside, the home of the two Miss Speirs.  They are not ordinary.  Miss Althea is a spiritualist.  She sees visions and spends much of her time with spooks.  Miss Clarice is a Buddhist.  Their father, when he lived, was an elder in the U.F.  Church.  I sometimes wonder what he would say to his daughters now.  When he died they left the U.F.  Church and became Episcopalians, then Miss Clarice found that she couldn’t believe in vicarious sacrifice and went over to Buddhism.  She took me into her bedroom once.  There was a thick yellow carpet, and a bed with a tapestry cover, and almost no furniture, except—­is it impious to call Buddha furniture?—­a large figure of Buddha with a lamp burning before it.  It all seemed to me horribly unfresh.  Both ladies provide much simple amusement to the townsfolk with their clothes and their antics.”

“I know the Speirs type,” said Pamela.  “Foolish virgins.”

“Next to Woodside is Craigton,” went on Jean, “and there live three spinsters—­the very best brand of spinsters—­the Duncans, Miss Mary, Miss Janet, and Miss Phemie.  I don’t know what Priorsford would do without these good women.  Spinsters they are, but they are also real mothers in Israel.  They have time to help everyone.  Benign Miss Mary is the housekeeper—­and such a housekeeper!  Miss Janet is the public one, sits on all the Committees.  Miss Phemie does the flowers and embroiders beautiful things and is like