The little maid was knocking at the door, and announcing that tea was
ready, while Margot was still weaving her rose-coloured dreams. It was
a cold douche in more ways than one, to return to the depressing
atmosphere of the dining-room, but the meal itself was tempting and
plentiful. Scones and toast, eggs and strawberry-jam, besides the solid
flank of ham, and, better than all, plenty of delicious cream and fresh
butter.

Margot poured out tea for herself and Ron, and, taking the hot-water-jug
on her knee, warmed her numbed hands on it as she ate. For the first
five or ten minutes no time was wasted in talking; then, the first pangs
of hunger being appeased, the two young people began to compare
impressions.

"Do you suppose this is the only sitting-room? Do you suppose we shall
have to sit here in the evenings and when it rains? Fancy a long wet
day, Ron, shining on horsehair chairs, with your feet on an oil-clothed
floor, gazing at funeral cards! I should go to bed!"

"It wouldn't be a bad idea. Rest cure, you know! If we are very
energetic in fine weather, we may be glad of a rest; but there _is_
another room. I caught sight of a sanctuary filled with woollen mats
and wax flowers, with a real live piano in the corner. `The best
parlour,' I should say, and the pride of Mrs McNab's heart. I don't
know if she will allow you to enter."

"She will; but she won't have a fire. It has been spring-cleaned, and
has a waterfall of green paper in the grate--I can see it all!" Margot
declared, with a shudder. She hugged the hot-water-jug still closer,
and shivered expressively. "I shall be obliged to raid the kitchen--
there's nothing else for it!"

"You daren't!"

Margot laughed derisively, but her answer was checked by the sudden
appearance of a man's figure pacing slowly past the window. Brother and
sister sprang from their chairs, with a simultaneous impulse, rushed
across the room, and crouched behind the moreen curtains. "Is it?" they
queried breathlessly of each other--"Mr Elgood? Can it be?"

If it were Mr Elgood, he was certainly not imposing, so far as looks
were concerned. A dumpy little man, of forty years or more, dressed in
a baggy suit of grey tweed, with carpet slippers on his dumpy little
feet. He had evidently started out of the inn to enjoy a smoke in the
open air, sublimely unconscious of the scrutiny that was levelled upon
him the while. His uncovered head showed a large bald pa