For some reason best known to himself Mhor was very sparing of breath
when he repeated poetry, making one breath last so long that the end of
the verse was reached in a breathless whisper--in this instance very
effective.

"So that is what 'Jean' teaches you," said Pamela. "I should like to
see Jean."

"Well," said Mhor, "come in with me now and see her. I should be doing
my lessons anyway, and you can tell her where I've been."

"Won't she think me rather pushing?" Pamela asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Mhor carelessly. "Jean's kind to
everybody--tramps and people who sing in the street and little cats with
no homes. Hadn't you better put on your hat?"

So Pamela obediently put on her hat and coat and went with her new
friends down the road a few steps and up the flagged path to the front
door of the funny little house that kept its back turned to its parvenu
neighbours, and its eyes lifted to the hills.

In Mhor led her, Peter following hard behind, through a square,
low-roofed entrance-hall with a polished floor, into a long room with
one end coming to a point in an odd-shaped window, rather like the bow
of a ship.

A girl was sitting in the window with a large basket of darning beside
her.