stillness seemed almost oppressive. The one brilliant spot of colour
in the landscape was a large scarlet macaw, asleep on his stand
under the cedar.

At last came the sound of an opening door. A quaint old figure
stepped out on to the terrace, walked its entire length to the
right, and disappeared into the rose-garden. The Duchess of Meldrum
had gone to cut her roses.

She wore an ancient straw hat, of the early-Victorian shape known as
"mushroom," tied with black ribbons beneath her portly chin; a loose
brown holland coat; a very short tweed skirt, and Engadine
"gouties." She had on some very old gauntlet gloves, and carried a
wooden basket and a huge pair of scissors.

A wag had once remarked that if you met her Grace of Meldrum
returning from gardening or feeding her poultry, and were in a
charitable frame of mind, you would very likely give her sixpence.
But, after you had thus drawn her attention to yourself and she
looked at you, Sir Walter Raleigh's cloak would not be in it! Your
one possible course would be to collapse into the mud, and let the
ducal "gouties" trample on you. This the duchess would do with
gusto; then accept your apologies with good nature; and keep your
sixpence, to show when she told the story.

The duchess lived alone; that is to say, she had no desire for the
perpetual companionship of any of her own kith and kin, nor for the
constant smiles and flattery of a paid companion. Her pale daughter,
whom she had systematically snubbed, had married; her handsome son,
whom she had adored and spoiled, had prematurely died, before the