"Not by looking within, but by living without,
This centre of self, shall a man grow wise."—Lytton.
META drove Jean over to Mrs. Fergusson's in a small dog-cart. It was a bright crisp afternoon, and Jean enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine, and the long stretch of hills and valleys that lay before them as they went.
They drove into the nearest town, which was five miles away. Mrs. Fergusson's house stood alone on the outskirts of the town, and was surrounded by high brick walls and a thin fringe of Scotch firs and larches. They were ushered into an upstairs drawing-room, but it was her "at home" day, and the room was full of people.
"Lots of these are Edinburgh folk," whispered Meta. "She always gathers clever literary people round her."
And then, stepping up to the hostess, Jean was introduced. Mrs. Fergusson was a tall, handsome old lady. Her white hair and brilliant dark eyes gave her a striking individuality. She looked at Jean kindly.
"The young portrait painter who is staying at Mrs. Gordon's? I am glad to meet you, my dear."
"I told her you would like her because she has an object in life," said Meta, a little saucily.
"Is it painting?" asked Mrs. Fergusson quietly.
Jean looked up at her frankly.
"I don't think it is altogether," she said. "It doesn't satisfy me."