The morning-room at Glen McAllister was an ideal room of its kind, in a
rather plain and severe style. The floor was covered with dainty blue and
white straw matting, and huge rugs of musk-ox skin, from the wilds of the
great North-West of Canada, were scattered here and there about the room.
At a large desk, looking as if it might belong to a man with an immense
business connection, sat Lady Margaret McAllister. She was adding
accounts with a methodical accuracy and speed even a bank clerk could not
hope to excel. She was a woman of about forty, though looking younger,
her hair being of that tawny shade of yellow that rarely turns grey, and
her complexion bright and fresh, bearing witness to a healthy outdoor
life.

That morning she was very busy counting up the week's expenses, and
trying to explain to her husband that the conduct of their bailiff was
most reprehensible. Lady Margaret always used long words in preference to
short ones, which might express exactly the same meaning. This was one of
her peculiarities.

"Three months' rent for the Mackay's farm is due, Noël. I really think
you might bestir yourself a little to look after the estate. Jones is the
most execrable manager I ever knew. Here you are, with nothing to do all
day except smoke or shoot, letting things go to rack and ruin. We shall
be in the poor-house soon. Umph! I've no patience with you."

"No, my dear, you never had, and each year you have less. I am, indeed, a
sore trial to you," replied her husband, smiling placidly.

"You are, there can be no question about that," said Lady Margaret,
bitterly.