He sat in much embarrassment, making what he meant to be comforting ejaculations, until Jean stopped crying and laughed.

“It’s wretched of me to make you so uncomfortable.  I don’t know what’s happened to me.  I’ve suddenly got so silly.  And I don’t think I like charming people.  Charm is a merciless sort of gift ... and I know he will take Pamela away, and she made things so interesting.  Every day since he came I seem to have got lonelier and lonelier, and the sight of your familiar face and the sound of your kind voice finished me....  I’m quite sensible now, so don’t go away.  Tea will be in in a minute, and the boys.  Isn’t it fine that Davie will be home to-morrow?  D’you think he’ll be changed?”

Lewis Elliot stayed to tea, and Jock and Mhor fell on him with acclamation, and told him wonderful tales of their new friend, and never noticed the marks of tears on Jean’s face.

“Jean, what is Lord Bidborough’s Christian name?” Jock asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.  Richard Plantagenet, I should think.”

“Really, Jean?”

“Why not?  But you’d better ask him.  Are you going, Cousin Lewis?  When will you come and see Davie?”

“Let me see.  I’m lunching at Hillview on Friday May I come in after luncheon?  Thanks.  You must all come up to Laverlaw one day next week.  The puppies are growing up, Mhor, and you’re missing all their puppyhood; that’s a pity.”

Later in the evening, just before Mhor’s bedtime Lord Bidborough came to The Rigs.  Pamela was resting, he explained, or writing letters, or doing something else, and he had come in to pass the time of day with them.

“The time of night, you mean,” said Mhor ruefully “In ten minutes I’ll have to go to bed.”

“Had you a nice time this afternoon?” Jean asked.

“Oh, ripping!  Coming up by Tweed in the darkening was heavenly.  I wish you had been with us, Miss Jean.  Why wouldn’t you come?”

“I had things to do,” said Jean primly.

“Couldn’t the things have waited?  Good days in December are precious, Miss Jean—­and Pam and I are going away next week.  Promise you will go with us next time—­on Saturday, to the Eildon Hills.”

“What’s your Christian name, please?” Jock broke in suddenly, remembering the discussion.  “Jean says it’s Richard Plantagenet—­is it?”

Jean flushed an angry pink, and said sharply: 

“Don’t be silly, Jock.  I was only talking nonsense.”

“Well, what is it?” Jock persisted.

“It’s not quite Richard Plantagenet, but it’s pretty bad.  My name given me by my godmother and godfathers is—­Quintin Reginald Fuerbras.”

“Gosh, Maggie!” ejaculated Jock.  “Earls in the streets of Cork!”

“I knew,” said Jean, “that it would be something very twopence-coloured.”

“It’s not, I grant, such a jolly name as yours,” said Lord Bidborough—­“Jean Jardine.”

“Oh, mine is Penny-plain,” said Jean hurriedly.