"Eh, but London’s a michty queer place, Miss Isla, and ye never ken wha’s your next-door neibour. But ye can aye--day or nicht--tak’ a hansom and come ower to me, if onything gangs wrang. I’ll no let ’The Pictur Gallery’ the noo. Very likely I’ll no hae the chance till after Christmas. So if ye like to leave onything in it ye can." They had a long cosy chat over their tea. Then Isla retired to "The Pictur Gallery" to make a fresh inventory of her clothes. She found that the room had been swept and garnished, and a cheerful fire relieved its gloom, with the result that all things, even "The Pictur Gallery," contributed to her hopeful mood. She was promising herself no end of amusement and interest in her new environment. She felt very much as a child might who is about to be taken to a pantomime for the first time; and certainly she was quite lifted up beyond all the more sordid and disagreeable aspects of her own private life. But the good Agnes was conscious of sundry misgivings when she bade Isla good-bye about four o’clock next afternoon and saw the cab roll away. "You’ll promise noo, Miss Isla, that if there’s onything wrang, or onything even that ye dinna like, that ye’ll come richt back. I canna say I’m as comfortable in my mind aboot ye as I micht be. I wakened Andra up in the nicht-time to tell him I wasna." "Nonsense, Agnes. It’s just because you’ve grown accustomed to thinking of me in different circumstances that you are anxious about me. I’m going to enjoy myself immensely and see a bit of life." "And you’ll write to them, Miss Isla--either to Mr. Malcolm or to Lady Mackinnon? I want them to ken where you are." "But I don’t. I’ll write and give them your address, but I forbid you to breathe the name of Hans Crescent. Besides, I should certainly be dismissed if a horde of my folk appeared at Mrs. Bodley-Chard’s," she added with a little whimsical smile. "I didn’t ask, but I feel sure that no followers would be allowed." Agnes was left with a smile on her face, but it faded before she had watched the four-wheeler out at the end of the street. "Puir thing! She disna ken a thing aboot life! I hope the Lord will look after her. Naebody else can." Isla had no misgivings when she arrived at her destination. She was received with respectful consideration by Robbins, who passed her on to a house-maid who, with a polite but distant air showed her to her room. It was on the third floor, but it was a large and beautiful chamber, with which even the most fastidious person could not have found a single fault. "Mrs. Bodley-Chard has waited tea for you in the boudoir, Miss," said the girl. "Thank you; and may I ask your name? We shall probably have to see a good deal of each other, so we may as well be friendly. I am Miss Mackinnon." "I’m Cecilia Owen. I’m called Owen upstairs and Cissy in the kitchen," answered the girl, surprised into cordiality of tone. "And which do you prefer?"