“Where were you staying?” I asked.
“Where? Why, with my aunt, where I always stay. She is your neighbor, since it IS you.”
“I—beg your pardon—but then—is your aunt Lady Bluebell? I did not quite catch—”
“Don’t be afraid. She is amazingly deaf. Yes. She is the relict of my beloved uncle, the sixteenth or seventeenth Baron Bluebell—I forget exactly how many of them there have been. And I—do you know who I am?” She laughed, well knowing that I did not.
“No,” I answered frankly. “I have not the least idea. I asked to be introduced because I recognized you. Perhaps—perhaps you are a Miss Bluebell?”
“Considering that you are a neighbor, I will tell you who I am,” she answered. “No; I am of the tribe of Bluebells, but my name is Lammas, and I have been given to understand that I was christened Margaret. Being a floral family, they call me Daisy. A dreadful American man once told me that my aunt was a Bluebell and that I was a Harebell—with two l’s and an e—because my hair is so thick. I warn you, so that you may avoid making such a bad pun.”
“Do I look like a man who makes puns?” I asked, being very conscious of my melancholy face and sad looks.
Miss Lammas eyed me critically.
“No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I can trust you,” she answered. “Do you think you could communicate to my aunt the fact that you are a Cairngorm and a neighbor? I am sure she would like to know.”
I leaned toward the old lady, inflating my lungs for a yell. But
Miss Lammas stopped me.