Gerald, only son of Aunt Perdy, was a soldier, and he was recovering from fever caught in India when Juley invited him to Duntarvie. She was sure that he would quickly get strong in that wonderful air. And strong he did get in spite of his aunt’s perseverance in probing him for what she called “the root of the matter”; in spite also of having left his susceptible heart in the keeping of a blue-eyed jilt in Calcutta.

He travelled with the Bannermans from Glasgow, and on the little local line which ran from Perth to their village, the compartment was so crowded with people returning from a cattle-show that he took Joanna on his knee. Gerald was far from being aware of the bliss his careless contact gave to the small girl. But so it was. For the last forty-eight hours Joanna had been his passionate slave. Now the loved one held her in his arms, and that she might stay there as long as possible she pretended to fall asleep, leaning her cheek against the rough coat he wore. Ever afterwards the smell and texture of Harris tweed recalled the delirium of that journey in the embrace of a god.

To Joanna cousin Gerald was indeed a god. He transgressed against all her standards. He even shot chaffinches and robins with his revolver and afterwards skinned them. Yet she asked for nothing better than to stand watching while the plumage was slit down the breasts and slipped deftly from the piteous little bodies of Gerald’s victims. The young man’s lean wrists and his long fingers, so dark and merciless thrilled the child to the soul. Secretly she imagined herself a little fluttering bird in their cruel yet skilful grasp; and she felt she would gladly have let them crush the life out of her for their own inscrutable ends.