"Talking of Amber Guiting," he said, "did you ever come across a Miss
Morton down there? A friend of Miss Ross."

Lady Pen turned and looked hard at him. "Oh dear, yes; she's rather a
pal of mine. I knew her long before I met her at the Ross's. Why, I knew
her when she was companion at the Trents, poor little devil."

"Did she have a bad time there? Weren't they nice to her?"

"At first they were nice enough, but afterwards it was rotten. Clever
little thing she is, but poor as a rat. What do you know about her?"

Again Lady Pen looked hard at Miles. She was wondering whether Meg had
ever given away the reason for that short hair of hers.

"Oh, I've met her just casually, you know, with Miss Ross. She strikes
me as a ... rather unusual sort of girl."

"Ever mention me?"

"No, never that I can remember. I haven't seen much of her, you know."

"Well, my son, the less you see of her the better, for her, I should
say. She's a clever, industrious, good little thing, but she's not in
your row. After all, these workin' girls have their feelin's."

"I don't fancy Miss Morton is at all the susceptible idiot you appear
to think her. It's other people's feelings I should be afraid of, not
hers."

"Oh, I grant you she's attractive enough to some folks. Artists, for
instance, rave over her. At least, Anthony Ross did. Queer chap, that;
would never paint me. Now can you understand any man in his senses
refusin' to paint me?"

"It seems odd, certainly."

"He painted her, for nothin' of course, over an' over again ... just
because he liked doin' it. Odd chap he was, but very takin'. You
couldn't dislike him, even when he refused to paint you. Awful swank
though, wasn't it?"

"Were his pictures of Miss Morton--sold?"

"Some were, I believe; but Janet Ross has got a lot of 'em down at
Wren's End. She always puts away most of her father's paintin's when she
lets the house. But you take my advice, Miley, my son: you keep clear of
that little girl."

This was on Thursday, and, of course, after two warnings in one
afternoon, Miles went down to Amber Guiting on Saturday night.

"Aunt Mary, it's such a lovely morning, should you mind very much if I
go for a stroll in the woods--or slack about in the fresh air, instead
of going to church?"

At the word "stroll" he had seen an interested expression lighten up
Squire Walcote's face, and the last thing he wanted was his uncle's
society for the whole morning.

"I don't fee