Mrs. Douglas laughed rather ruefully. "You're a terribly bracing person, Ann; but I'm bound to confess that you practise what you preach."
"But I've really no right to preach at all!" Ann said. "I always forget one thing, the most important of all. I've always been perfectly well, so I've no right to sit in judgment on people who struggle all their lives against ill-health. It is no credit to me--I who hardly know what it means to have a headache--to be equable and gay. When I think of some people we know, fighting all the time against such uneven odds, asking only for a chance to work and be happy in working, and knocked down time and again, yet always undefeated, I could go and bury my head ashamed. Don't ever listen to me, Mother, when I preach to you; squash me at once."
"Well, I'll try to--but, Ann, there is one thing that worries me. Remember, I will not have you sacrifice your life to me."
"No fear of that," said Ann airily. "There's nothing of the martyr about me."
"That Mr. Philip Scott----" Mrs. Douglas hesitated.
"Oh, him!" said Ann, "or, to be more grammatical, oh, he! I had a letter from him this morning--did I forget to show it you? He says he is to be at Birkshaw for Christmas."
"Don't be provoking, Ann. Is Mr. Scott anything to you?"
Ann turned serene grey eyes to her mother. "Nothing," she said, "except a pleasant friend. That's all he wants to be, I'm sure."
Ann caught the Tatler in her arms and sank with it into the depths of an arm-chair.
"There's something exceedingly nice about being a spinster. Here's Marget. I shall ask her what she thinks. Marget, you don't regret being a spinster, do you?"
Marget came farther into the room and peered suspiciously at Ann in the arm-chair with the cat in her arm.
"Ye're no' gaun to pit it doon in writin' are ye? Weel, that's a' richt. To tell the truth I hadna muckle encouragement to be onything else. I wasna juist a'thegither negleckit, but I never had a richt offer. But lookin' roond I've often been thankfu' I wasna trachled wi' a man. Ye see, livin' a' ma life wi' kin o' better folk I wad ha' taken ill wi' a man sittin' in his stockin' feet and spittin' into the fire. Genteel service spoils ye; but, of course, a'body's no sae particlar.... Mysie, the monkey, hes gotten a lawd."
