ster
Bunting and Miss Poppet in various stages of development. There was
also a framed picture of "The House"; a tambourine painted with purple
iris by Miss Isabel's own hands; an old bannerette in cross-stitch
pendent from the mantelpiece, a collection of paper mats, shaded from
orange to white, the glass-covered vase of wax flowers which had
attracted Ron's notice, one or two cheap china vases, a pot of musk
placed diametrically in the centre of a wicker table, a sofa, and two
"occasional chairs" gorgeously upholstered in red satin and green plush.

Mrs Macalister seated herself in the larger of the chairs, Margot took
possession of the smaller, and heroically stifled a yawn. Another
evening she would wrap herself in her golf cape and go out into the
clear cool evening air; but now at last fatigue overpowered her; fatigue
and a little chill of disappointment and doubt. How would it be
possible to become intimate with a man who sat at the opposite end of
the table, shut himself in his own room, and was apparently oblivious of
his surroundings? With characteristic recklessness Margot had put on
her very prettiest blouse, hoping to make a good impression on this
first evening, but for all the attention it had received it might as
well have been black delaine! She sighed and yawned again, whereupon
Mrs Macalister manifested a kindly concern.

"You're tired out, poor lassie! Ye've had a weary journey of it. From
London, I believe? I have a daughter married in Notting Hill. Will
that be anywhere near where you stay? I'm hoping she'll be up to visit
us in the New Year, and bring the baby with her. I have five children.
The eldest girl is settled in Glasgow. I say, that's something to be
thankful for, to have a married daughter near by. There was a young
lawyer paying her attention who's away to the Cape. If it had been him,
I'd have broken my heart! It's bad enough to have Lizzie in London,
where, if the worst comes to the worst, ye can get to her for thirty-
three shillings, but I couldn't bear one of my girls to go abroad..."

"But the men have to go--it's their duty to the Empire; and somebody
must marry the poor things," Margot declared, still stifling yawns, but
roused to a sleepy interest in Lizzie and her sisters. She foresaw that
Mrs Macalister would need but the slightest encouragement to divulge
her entire family history, and wondered whether time would prove her to
be more of a solace or a bore.