Evarne was indeed taken aback at this piece of information. Barely succeeding in suppressing a start, she murmured something she fondly hoped was duly appropriate to the occasion. Evidently she was successful, for Mrs. Punter ceased nodding, and thanked her heartily.
"And now, where are you going to put up, my dear?" she inquired. "Do you know Glasgow at all?"
"I've never been here before, but I expect I can find diggings easily enough. Rehearsals begin to-morrow, don't they?"
"Well, that was what we expected," responded Mr. Punter. "But a few of the principals have not arrived yet. Still, a short delay will enable you to become word-perfect in your part, won't it? And that is so important."
"Yes-s. But when does the tour open, then?"
"Of course that depends entirely on how the rehearsals progress. Now, you must have something to eat before you start house-hunting. You won't mind going into the kitchen?"
Mrs. Punter slouched on ahead, and Evarne followed to another room at the rear of the house. This also was practically devoid of furniture, but doubtless derived its name from the small oil-stove that stood on the table.
The window looked out on to what had formerly been a garden, but which now wore that melancholy and desolate aspect that characterises a once well-tended spot that has long been utterly neglected. The lawn was a field; the flower-beds lost in weeds; the gravel walks overgrown; boisterous winds had snapped the slender stem of a young tree, which now lay wilted upon the ground. Altogether, it was a scene in no way conducive to high spirits.
The authoress set about performing culinary operations with a frying-pan and the oil-stove, and in due course a repast was evolved of fried ham and stale bread. Evarne found Mrs. Punter's skill at cookery on a par with the estimate she had already formed of her literary gifts. Eating heroically what she could, she rose to leave.
"But first I must introduce you to Charles Stuart," declared Mr. Punter, who had joined them.