Jean turned away from him sharply, for she heard the sound of wheels.
A high dog-cart swung up in style, and out of it, sprang a tall broad-shouldered man in thick ulster and cap. Giving the reins to a groom, he came swiftly out upon the platform and lost no time in greeting Jean.
"Is it Miss Desmond? I am very sorry to be late in welcoming you. Mrs. Gordon was in such trouble to-day over her coachman, who is very ill, that she was prevented from sending her brougham. As I had to come to the station to fetch a parcel, I told her, I would meet you, but I have been delayed on the road. I am afraid you have had a long cold journey."
Jean was glad to meet with one man who could move and speak briskly. In a few minutes, her modest luggage was piled in the back of the cart, and she herself, with a fur rug tucked well round her, was perched up in front with the driver.
As they drove away, she said with energy—
"I was just feeling that I could give them all a good shaking."
Her companion looked down upon her with much amusement.
"You mustn't try to hurry a Scot," he said. "It can't be done."
Jean did not answer. She wondered who he was, and then the biting wind driving full in her face, turned her thoughts upon herself. She looked around her. A few grey stone cottages scattered here and there, wide stretches of bleak moorland, and a straight highroad. Was this the romantic and picturesque country she had read about in her favourite Sir Walter Scott's poems and novels? She gave an involuntary shudder.
"Are you very cold?" her companion asked her, cheerfully. "It is a long drive, and not a very pretty one."