"Oh yes, he has. I was sitting in the kitchen this morning, and he came
and spoke to me under the impression that I was Elspeth! The impression
lasted until he got quite near. I was wearing an apron, but still,--I
wasn't pleased! When he saw my face instead of hers, he fled for his
life. But he did see it! He knows quite well what I am like."
"And in the depths of your little girl heart you think he is a strange
fellow, not to want to see you again! You can't understand why he
should go out of his way to be kind to Elspeth, and avoid some one
infinitely more attractive. Don't be offended, but that's a wrong view
to take of the case. In my brother's eyes Elspeth is more attractive
than yourself, for she is poor, you see, and ugly, and leads a life of
all work and no play. He might be able to do her a good turn. Besides,
he has known her for several years, and has had time to become
reconciled to her existence, so to speak. Custom goes a long way with
shy people. George would rather beard a den of lions than face the
company in the inn parlour on a wet evening, but he is a welcome guest
in the kitchen, and Mrs McNab adores him to the extent of submitting to
muddy boots without a murmur. He cracks jokes with her in a free-and-
easy manner which strikes awe into the heart of tremblers like myself.
It's my first visit to the Nag's Head, and I'm still in the stage of
abject submission. She's a wonderful woman!"
Margot smiled with returning composure. She divined her companion's
desire to change the subject of conversation, and was quite willing to
further his efforts. What she had already heard concerning George
Elgood supplied ample food for meditation.
Viewed in dispassionate light, it was not wholly disconcerting, for if
the citadel could but once be stormed, there seemed a certainty of
gaining sympathy and consideration. She must be content to wait in
patience, until the hermit had become reconciled to her existence; but
Ron, as a fellow-man, could venture on advances on his own account.
She must talk to Ron in private, and try to instil into him some of her
own energy and enterprise. He was a dear, wonderful fellow, but
absolutely wanting in initiative. Poets, she supposed, were always
dreamy, impracticable creatures, unfitted to attend to practical
interests, and dependent upon the good offices of some adoring woman
working meekly in the background.
Her eyes brightened eloquently as she watched her brother's approach
along the winding path. What a handsome young figure of manhood he made
in his Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, the close-fitting deerstalker
cap showing the light chestnut hair, from which no barber's shears could
succeed in banishing the natural kink and curl. No one would suspect,
to look at him, that he cherished poetical ambitions! Margot was
English enough to be thankful for this fact, illogical as it may appear.
She was proud to realise that he looked a thorough sportsman, and in
absolute harmony with his surroundings, and instinctively her pride and
affection voiced themselves in words. The Chieftain might not be the
rose, but he was at least near the rose, and it would be well to enlist
his interest as well as that of his brother.