her husband, Edie Muir. He's a sort of useful adjunct. He grooms the pony, potters about the house, and nods over the fire. He's very little to do, but Tibbie is a marvel of activity."
"I hope she'll forgive me for coming," I said.
"Oh, her bark is worse than her bite! She's one of the faithful servants you read about in books and rarely meet in real life. She's under the impression that if Mr. Parslewe happens not to be at home it's her duty to be on guard. I believe she thinks of me as a mere child. But I'm mistress, of course!"
"I hope Mr. Parslewe will not think me an intruder?" I suggested. "I suppose I could have struggled through."
"And I suppose you couldn't," she retorted imperatively. "As for Mr. Parslewe, he'll be delighted to see you. If you can talk to him about anything old—old books, or pictures, old pots, pans, and plates, he'll be more than delighted."
I glanced round the room. It was one of those rooms which are difficult to light—there were dark and shadowy places and recesses. But I could see cabinets and presses, shelves
