"Then you had better ask Lewie's permission." And Lady Manorwater
laughed.

"Who is Lewie?" asked the girl, anticipating some gamekeeper or
shepherd.

"Lewie is my nephew. He lives at Etterick, up at the head of the glen."

Miss Afflint spoke for the first time. "A very good man. You should
know Lewie, Miss Wishart. I'm sure you would like him. He is a great
traveller, you know, and has written a famous book. Lewis Haystoun is
his full name."

"Why, I have read it," cried Alice. "You mean the book about Kashmir.
But I thought the author was an old man."

"Lewie is not very old," said his aunt; "but I haven't seen him for
years, so he may be decrepit by this time. He is coming home soon, he
says, but he never writes. I know two of his friends who pay a Private
Inquiry Office to send them news of him."

Alice laughed and became silent. What merry haphazard people were these
she had fallen among! At home everything was docketed and ordered.
Meals were immovable feasts, the hour for bed and the hour for rising
were more regular than the sun's. Her father was full of proverbs on
the virtue of regularity, and was wont to attribute every vice and
misfortune to its absence. And yet here were men and women who got on
very well without it. She did not wholly like it. The little
doctrinaire in her revolted and she was pleased to be censorious.