No one was more astonished than Lady Haigh herself at her compliance with the invitation; but, as she said later, when she was politely handed out of her own drawing-room, what could she do but go? The one glimpse she had of Penelope reassured her. The girl’s colour had risen, and it was evident she resented her brother’s action, and was not inclined to accept his ruling tamely. For the moment Ferrers was the more embarrassed of the two. He fidgeted from one chair to another, and then took up a book on the table near Penelope and played with it, not noticing the start with which she half rose to rescue it from his hands. It was a battered copy of Scott’s Poems, the pages everywhere decorated with underlining and marginal notes. “Why, I believe you have got hold of the Chief’s beloved Scott!” he cried. “He might have found a respectable copy to lend you.” “I should not have cared for that,” she replied. “It is his notes that interest me.” “Oh, you find the Chief an object of interest?” Ferrers looked up sharply. “Do you see much of him?” “He comes in fairly often.” Penelope’s tone was curiously repressed. “I think he likes to talk to--us.” “And what may you and he find to talk about?” “The province, chiefly. Sometimes the battles he has been in.” Ferrers laughed forbearingly. There was little need to fear a rival in a man who could see a girl constantly for six months, and still talk to her on military and civil themes at the end of the time. “And you find that enlivening?” he asked. “Well, there’s no harm in it, but I wouldn’t advise you to become too confidential with him. He’s not the man you think him.” “I did not know I had asked your advice on the subject,” said Penelope coldly. “Oh, didn’t you? but you see I have a right to give it; and I tell you plainly I don’t wish you to make an intimate friend of Keeling.” “Even supposing that you had such a right, I should never think of bowing to it unless I knew your reasons.” “Do you really wish me to give them? I thought you might prefer to go on believing in your friend.” “I wish to hear the worst you can say of him, and I shall go on believing in him just the same.” “Will you? I think not. What would you say if I told you I had seen him, a week ago last night, playing _imam_ at a _pir_’s tomb out near the Akrab--reciting prayers, writing charms, pretending to work miracles, and all the rest of it?” “A week ago last night?” said Penelope faintly. Then she pulled herself together. “I should say you had been mistaken.” “Mistaken? Am I not to believe the witness of my own eyes?” “I would not believe the witness of my own eyes in such a case.”