He threw a discouraging flavour into the remark, but its real object was to lure Lady Coote on to her destruction. "If it was cleared up and--er--cut--and--er--all that sort of thing," she went on hopefully. "Aye," said MacDonald slowly. "It could be done. But it would mean taking William from the lower border." "Oh!" said Lady Coote doubtfully. The words "lower border" conveyed absolutely nothing to her mind--except a vague suggestion of a Scottish song--but it was clear that to MacDonald they constituted an insuperable objection. "And that would be a pity," said MacDonald. "Oh! of course," said Lady Coote. "It _would_." And wondered why she agreed so fervently. MacDonald looked at her very hard. "Of course," he said, "if it's your _orders_, m'lady--" He left it like that. But his menacing tone was too much for Lady Coote. She capitulated at once. "Oh! no," she said. "I see what you mean, MacDonald. N-no--William had better get on with the lower border." "That's what I thocht meself, m'lady." "Yes," said Lady Coote. "Yes. Certainly." "I thocht you'd gree, m'lady," said MacDonald. "Oh! certainly," said Lady Coote again. MacDonald touched his hat and moved away. Lady Coote sighed unhappily and looked after him. Jimmy Thesiger, replete with kidneys and bacon, stepped out on to the terrace beside her, and sighed in quite a different manner. "Topping morning, eh?" he remarked. "Is it?" said Lady Coote, absently. "Oh! yes, I suppose it is. I hadn't noticed." "Where are the others? Punting on the lake?" "I expect so. I mean, I shouldn't wonder if they were." Lady Coote turned and plunged abruptly into the house again. Tredwell was just examining the coffee pot. "Oh, dear," said Lady Coote. "Isn't Mr.--Mr.--" "Wade, m'lady?" "Yes, Mr. Wade. Isn't he down _yet_?" "No, m'lady." "It's very late." "Yes, m'lady." "Oh! dear. I suppose he will come down _sometime_, Tredwell?" "Oh, undoubtedly, m'lady. It was eleven thirty yesterday morning when Mr. Wade came down, m'lady." Lady Coote glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to twelve. A wave of human sympathy rushed over her. "It's very hard luck on you, Tredwell. Having to clear and then get lunch on the table by one o'clock." "I am accustomed to the ways of young gentlemen, m'lady." The reproof was dignified, but unmistakable. So might a prince of the Church reprove a Turk or an infidel who had unwittingly committed a solecism in all good faith. Lady Coote blushed for the second time that morning. But a welcome interruption occurred. The door opened and a serious, spectacled young man put his head in. "Oh! there you are, Lady Coote. Sir Oswald was asking for you." "Oh, I'll go to him at once, Mr. Bateman." Lady Coote hurried out. Rupert Bateman, who was Sir Oswald's private secretary, went out the other way, through the window where Jimmy Thesiger was still lounging amiably.