The one overpowering impression made by Mrs McNab was cleanliness! She was so obtrusively, aggressively, immaculately clean, that the like of her had never before dazzled the eyes of the benighted Southern visitors. Her lilac print gown was glossy from the press of the iron; the hands folded across the snowy apron were puffed and lined from recent parboiling; her face shone like a mirror from a generous use of good yellow soap. White stockings showed above her black felt slippers; her hair--red streaked with grey--was plastered down on each side of her head, and, for greater security, tied with a broad black ribbon. A stiff white collar was fastened by a slab of pebble rimmed in silver, which proudly imagined itself to be an ornamental brooch. There was not a single feminine curve in her body; stiff and square she stood, like a sentinel on guard, her lips pressed into a thin line; in her eyes a smouldering flame. Margot took her in, with one swift comprehensive glance, as the driver reined up his tired horses before the door. A temper; a quick temper, a temper easily provoked, but a kindly woman nevertheless. No country bumpkin, but a shrewd, capable business woman, with two light blue eyes fixed stolidly on the main chance; a woman, moreover, blessed with a sense of humour; else why those deep lines stretching from nose to chin; that radiating nest of wrinkles round the eyes? Margot's courage revived at the sight. She sprang down lightly from her perch and advanced towards the house, smiling in her most fascinating manner. "How do you do, Mrs McNab? We have arrived, you see. So glad to be here at last!" The mistress of the inn stared into her face, stolidly unmoved. "It was two brithers I was expecting. I'm no caring for leddies!" "You like gentlemen better? Oh, so do I--_Much_!" cried Margot with a gush. "But they need us to look after them, don't they? My brother is not at all strong. The drive has been delightful, but rather cold, all the same. I am afraid he may be chilled." She stretched out a little ungloved hand, and laid it lightly on the hard red fist. "Feel! We _should_ love some tea!" Mrs McNab looked down at the delicate little hand, up into the pleading eyes, and over her set square face there passed a contortion,--there is really no other word to describe it,--a contortion of unwilling amusement. The chin dropped, the lips twitched, the red lines which did duty for eyebrows wrinkled towards the nose. Similarly affected, an Irishwoman would have invoked all the saints in her calendar, and rained welcomes and blessings in a breath; an Englishwoman would have smiled a gracious welcome; but Mrs McNab drew away from the beguiling touch, turned a broad back on her guests, and with a curt "Come yer ways!" led the way into the house.