The hotel, half covered with creeper, stood in its well-kept garden, which ran down to the lake. It was not quite full of visitors. The guests, however, were all of the better class, mostly Glasgow merchants and their wives, with a couple of families from London, and the usual youthful, well-dressed idler which one finds in every hotel the world over.
At dinner, as Mrs. Morrison sat alone in a corner by the window overlooking the loch, now crimson in the sunset, she glanced around, but none of her fellow-visitors appeared to be very interesting. The only person who attracted her was one woman who, seated alone, was apparently taking no interest in anyone, for she had propped up before her the Glasgow Herald, which had just arrived by the steamer, and was absorbed in it.
Augusta Morrison raised her eyes again, and saw that the woman was exceedingly well, though very quietly, dressed, while there was about her a distinct air of refinement. She also noticed that she possessed very remarkable hair.
Suddenly the eyes of the two women met, and the widow, a little confused for she had been staring hard, turned to look out of the window.
An hour later, when the well-dressed woman had gone out for an after-dinner stroll in the direction of the landing-stage, Mrs. Morrison inquired her name of the proprietor's wife.
"Oh!" replied the other. "She's a very nice lady from London. She has never been up here before. She's a Mrs. Pollen."
Then, referring to the visitors' book, she added: "She lives in Upper Brook Street, London. She came here about four days ago."
"Is she making a long stay?"
"She took her rooms for a fortnight," was the woman's reply. "She seems quite nice," she added.
Mrs. Morrison, of Carsphairn, agreed, and then, getting a wrap, went out into the garden where several of the other visitors were sitting on the verandah, as the dull red afterglow deepened into twilight.