sake of this wretched girl!
Basil and I will simply go back to our original plan, and travel through
Scotland together in a hired car."

"Luncheon is served, madam," Moore announced, at the turn of the path.

Luncheon--and the world in ruin!

"Mr. Somerled and Miss MacDonald will not be lunching," said Aline
icily.

Moore hid surprise by retiring in decorous haste.

"Good-bye, Mrs. West," said Somerled.

He held out his hand, looking at her steadily, but she turned and rushed
away from him, crying.

BOOK II

ACCORDING TO BARRIE

I

When the Great Surprise happened, Mr. Norman and I had just been having
a very nice talk. I'd never expected to know a real author, and of
course I wanted to talk about him, but he would talk about me instead.
He asked me questions in quite a different way from his sister's, though
I can't put the difference into words. I can only feel it. I know his
way made me want to answer him, and hers made me want to slap her. That
is queer, because she was not rude, but soft and gentle.

Among other things that Mr. Norman teased me to tell, was about the
silly stories which I've always been scribbling secretly ever since the
time when I had to print because I hadn't learned to write. He said that
he would like to see them, but I told him they were torn up, even the
last one, which I stuffed into the chimney in my room before I ran away
from Grandma's. Then he said I must write another, and he would help me.
I _was_ excited when he went on to say that people who took to writing
like ducks to water when they were almost babies, without any one
advising them, generally had real talent. This made me wild to begin
writing again at once, and I envied him because he and Mrs. West had
planned out a story all about their motor trip in Scotland. I thought it
would be the greatest fun to write of things that were actually
happening; but he explained that he wasn't going to bring in the real
people or what they did or said, only the scenery and perhaps a few of
the adventures, glorified a little. I told him that I should enjoy even
more writing things exactly as they were in life; then he argued that if
one did it in that way it wouldn't be a story, but a kind of diary.

Perhaps this _is_ a kind of diary, but I feel as if I must write it,
especially as, because of what happened while we were talking, Mr.
Norman's story can't be written after all. At least it can't be written
about thi