“Blessed were the Picts and Scots, Cynthia,” he observed wistfully, closing the door meticulously behind him. “They may have had trouble at times with their sporrans, perhaps, but what is a mere sporran?” Cynthia, seated in a kimono before her dressing-table, smiled at him over her shoulder; she had a particularly sweet smile. She was a tall, graceful girl of twenty-three, who bore every promise of turning later into that most delightful of creatures, a charmingly gracious woman. Gracious women are of two widely opposite kinds, one the most adorable and one the most fell of their sex, and it is the presence or absence of charm which makes or mars them. There was no fear of Cynthia falling into the latter category. Guy and Cynthia had been married for two years, which period had been passed during the winters at Guy’s old home in Lincolnshire and in the summers at their riverside cottage in Duffley, a quiet little village on the Thames nearly mid-way between Oxford and Abingdon (it was called a “cottage”). To outward appearances they were as incompatible as a couple may well be, and they were extremely happy together. That shows the value of outward appearances. “A sporran, darling?” Cynthia repeated. “Don’t try to make me answer that; you know how I hate admitting ignorance. All my life I’ve wondered what a sporran is, and never had the courage to ask. It seemed to be a thing that any decently educated person ought to know, like French verbs, or what Edward the Somethingth said to the lady whose garter he picked up, and that sort of thing. What _is_ a sporran, Guy?” Her husband stroked his chin reflectively. “Isn’t it something you wear in your bonnet?” he hazarded. “No, dear,” Cynthia told him gently. “That’s a bee. Well, never mind about sporrans. Let’s get this grim piece of work over.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’ve been expecting you for the last ten minutes.” “I nearly did it myself to-night,” Guy said ruefully, handing her the strip of black devilry, which instantly ceased to be diabolical at all and, assuming an air of almost offensive rectitude, permitted Cynthia to do with it as she would. “I must have got the ends within an inch of each other at least half-a-dozen times.” “There!” Cynthia stepped back and regarded her handiwork complacently. “Not so bad for a first shot, I fancy. You are a ridiculous old butterfingers, aren’t you?” She kissed the ridiculous old butterfingers lightly on the end of his long nose and resumed her seat. “Well, well,” said the old butterfingers, and moved towards the door. “Thank you, my dear.” “Oh, don’t go, Guy. You’re practically ready, and there’s heaps of time. Sit down and smoke a cigarette and watch me make myself beautiful; there are some cigarettes in the box on the mantelpiece.” “Sure you don’t mind, in here?”