As Jean spoke she moved about, putting things to rights, lifting cushions, brightening the fire, brushing away fallen cinders.

“That’s better.  Now don’t stand about so uncomfortably Pamela, sit in your corner; and this is a really comfortable chair, Lord Bidborough.”

“I want to look at the books, if I may,” said Lord Bidborough.  “It’s always the first thing I do in a room.  You have a fine collection here.”

“They are nearly all my father’s books,” Jean explained.  “We don’t add to them, except, of course, on birthdays and at Christmas, and never valuable books.”

“You have some very rare books—­this, for instance.”

“Yes.  Father treasured that—­and have you seen this?”

They browsed among the books for a little, and Jean, turning to Pamela, said, “I remember the first time you came to see us you did this, too, walked about and looked at the books.”

“I remember,” said Pamela; “history repeats itself.”

Lord Bidborough stopped before a shelf.  “This is a catholic selection.”

“Those are my favourite books,” said Jean—­“modern books, I mean.”

“I see.”  He went along the shelf, naming each book as he came to it. “The Long Roll and Cease Firing.  Two great books.  I should like to read them again now.”

“Now one could read them,” said Jean.  “Through the War I tried to, but I had to stop.  The writing was too good—­too graphic, somehow....”

“Yes, it would be too poignant.... John Splendid.  I read that one autumn in Argyle—­slowly—­about two chapters a day, making it last as long as I could.”

“Isn’t it fine?” said Jean.  “John Splendid, who never spoke the truth except to an enemy!  Do you remember the scene with the blind widow of Glencoe?  And John Splendid was so gallant and tactful:  ’dim in the sight,’ he called her, for he wouldn’t say ‘blind’; and then was terrified when he heard that plague had been in the house, and would have left without touching the outstretched hand, and Gordon, the harsh-mannered minister, took it and kissed it, and the blind woman cried, ’O Clan Campbell, I’ll never call ye down—­ye may have the guile they claim for ye, but ye have the way with a woman’s heart,’ and poor John Splendid went out covered with shame.”

Jean’s eyes were shining, and she had forgotten to be awkward and tongue-tied.

“I remember,” said Lord Bidborough.  “And the wonderful descriptions—­’I know corries in Argyle that whisper silken’ ... do you remember that?  And the last scene of all when John Splendid rides away?”

“Do you cry over books, Jean?” Pamela asked.  She was sitting on the end of the sofa, her embroidery frame in her hand and her cloak on, ready to go when her brother had finished looking at Jean’s treasures.

Jean shook her head.  “Not often.  Great-aunt Alison said it was the sign of a feeble mind to waste tears over fiction, but I have cried.  Do you remember the end of The Mill on the Floss?  Tom and Maggie have been estranged, and the flood comes, and Tom goes to save Maggie.  He is rowing when he sees the great mill machinery sweeping down on them, and he takes Maggie’s hand, and calls her the name he had used when they were happy children together—­’Magsie!’”