"It seems that he is spending a fortnight in the village, this Mr. Booth, painting spring lambs for rest and recreation, Mr. Leslie says."
"Then he is at our very gates," said Sara, looking up suddenly.
"I wonder if he can be the man I saw yesterday at the bridge," mused Hetty. "Is he tall?"
"I really can't say. He's rather vague. It was six or seven years ago."
"It was left that Mr. Wrandall is to come out on the eleven-thirty," explained Hetty. "I thought you wouldn't like sending either of the motors in."
"And Mr. Booth?"
"We are to send for him after Mr. Wrandall arrives. He is stopping at the inn, wherever that may be."
"Poor fellow!" sighed Sara, with a grimace. "I am sure he will like us immensely if he has been stopping at the inn."
Hetty stood staring down at the blazing logs for a full minute before giving expression to the thought that troubled her.
"Sara," she said, meeting her friend's eyes with a steady light in her own, "why did Mr. Wrandall ask for me instead of you? It is you he is coming to visit, not me. It is your house. Why should—"