She was followed into the room by Joan; very much the Joan of last summer, if we make allowances for the distressing appearance presented by a young woman of considerable personal attractions who is compelled by Fashion's decree, for this season at any rate, to obscure her features under a hat which looks like an unsuccessful compromise between a waste-paper basket and a dish-cover.
"Well, John," she inquired in her friendly fashion, "have you quite settled down in London?"
"Aye, mem."
"Not missing Scotland?" continued Joan, peeling off her white gloves and sitting down in an arm-chair.
"Naething to speak of," said John.
"I thought," continued Miss Gaymer, surveying Mr. Goble's Cimmerian features, "that you had perhaps left your heart there."
"Ma hairt? What for would I dae a thing like that?" enquired the literal Mr. Goble. "A hairt is no a thing a body can dae wi'oot," he explained. "It's no like a rib. Ye jist get the ane, so ye canna afford tae get leavin' it ony place."
Miss Gaymer smilingly abandoned the topic, and in all probability the ghost of Sydney Smith chuckled.
"When are you going to pay us another visit at Manors?" was Joan's next question.
"I'm no sure," said Mr. Goble. "Mr. Marrable has jist given me notice."