“Terrible lang and lean,” said Miss Bathgate.  “But I’m no denyin’ that there’s a kind o’ look aboot her that’s no common.  She would mak’ a guid queen if we had ony need o’ anither.”  “She makes a good mistress anyway,” said loyal Mawson.

“Oh, she’s no bad,” Bella admitted.  “An’ I must say she disna gie much trouble—­but it’s an idle life for ony wumman.  I canna see why Miss Reston, wi’ a’ her faculties aboot her, needs you hingin’ round her.  Mercy me, what’s to hinder her pu’in ribbons through her ain underclothes, if ribbons are necessary, which they’re not.  There’s Mrs. Muir next door, wi’ six bairns, an’ a’ the wark o’ the hoose to dae an’ washin’s forbye, an’ here’s Miss Reston never liftin’ a finger except to pu’ silk threads through a bit stuff.  That’s what makes folk Socialists.”

Mawson, who belonged to that fast disappearing body, the real servant class, and who, without a thought of envy, delighted in the possession of her mistress, looked sadly puzzled.

“But, Beller, don’t you think things work out more h’even than they seem?  Mrs. Muir next door works very ’ard.  I’ve seen her put out a washin’ by seven o’clock in the morning, but then she ’as a good ’usband and an ’ealthy family and much pleasure in ’er work.  Miss Reston lies soft and drinks her mornin’ tea in comfort, but she never knows the satisfied feelin’ that Mrs. Muir ’as when she takes in ’er clean clothes.”

“Weel, mebbe you’re right.  I’m nae Socialist masel’.  There maun aye be rich and poor, Dives in the big hoose and Lazarus at the gate.  But so long as we’re sure that Dives’ll catch it in the end, and Lazarus lie soft in Abraham’s bosom, we can pit up wi’ the unfairness here.  An’ speakin’ about Miss Reston, I dinna mind her no’ working.  Ye can see by the look of her that she never was meant to work, but just to get everything done for her.  Can ye picture her peelin’ tatties?  The verra thocht’s rideeclus.  She’s juist for lookin’ at, like the floors and a’ the bonnie things ...  But it’s thae new folk that pit up ma birse.  That Mrs. Duff-Whalley, crouse cat!  Rollin’ aboot wrap up in furs in a great caur, patronisin’ everybody that’s daft enough to let theirselves be patronised by her.  Onybody could see she’s no used to it.  She’s so ta’en up wi’ hersel’.  It’s kinda play-actin’ for her ...  An’ there’s naebody gives less to charitable objects.  I suppose when ye’ve paid and fed sae mony servants, and dressed yersel’ in silks and satins, and bocht every denty ye can think of, and kept up a great big hoose an’ a great muckle caur, there’s no’ that much left for the kirk-plate, or the heathen, or the hospitals ...  Oh, it’s peetifu’!”

Mawson nodded wisely.  “There’s plenty Mrs. Duff-Whalleys about; you be thankful you’ve only one in the place.  Priorsford is a very charitable place, I think.  The poor people here don’t know they’re born after London, and the clergy seem very active too.”

“Oh, they are that.  I daur say they’re as guid as is gaun.  Mr. Morrison is a fine man if marriage disna ruin him.”