“It’s over this property which my husband has bought, and which he wants to present to me. I told him I knew of a very clever Scottish lawyer and explained that Scottish law over real estate was quite different from English law, and of course so very much better.”

The gaze of James Buchanan was no longer something like stupefaction: it was stupefaction.

While Carrie was discussing the niceties of legal representation Myrtle and Alan sat on improvised hassocks of heather at the entrance of the cave.

“Did you know there was a terribly sad story about this cave?” she asked. “Wait a moment, what is it in Gaelic?”

“Uaimh na laoigh.”

“Are you musical, Mr Macmillan?”

“Well, I like music, but I’m no piper.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the bagpipes. That’s a special kind of music I haven’t gotten accustomed to yet. But I am pretty musical, and I buy quite a few highbrow phonograph records. I’ve a Victor recording of a clarinet quintet by Brahms and when I hear you say Ooav and what you say after that I could just imagine it was the clarinet on this Victor record. But I was asking you if you knew there was a terribly sad story about this cave.”

“No; I’ve not heard it.”

“Well, it seems there was once a young fugitive from the redcoats hiding in this cave.”

“Not Prince Charlie?” the poet asked suspiciously.

“No, not Prince Charlie.”

“I’m surprised to hear that. There’s hardly a cave in the Highlands in which ho isn’t supposed to have hidden from the redcoats,” Alan Macmillan scoffed. “If he’d slept one night in every cave in which he’s supposed to have slept he’d have spent three years hiding from the redcoats instead of less than five months.”

“Oh, this really is a true story. His name was Alan Macdonald … your name’s Alan, isn’t it?”

The owner of the name nodded.

“I think I’ll call you Alan if you don’t mind. It’s a name I’ve always been fond of, and now I’ve met somebody called Alan it seems a pity to waste the chance of using it. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” the poet answered, with a blush.

“That’s sweet of you. But if I call you Alan you’ll have to call me by my name. I expect you’ve forgotten what it is, haven’t you?”

“Myrtle.”

“Oh, you hadn’t forgotten,” she exclaimed, with gentle gratification. “Isn’t that very encouraging!”

She relapsed into a dream from which Alan roused her by asking for the rest of the story.

“Oh yes, the rest of the story,” she said. “Well, this Alan Macdonald loved a girl in Glenbristle called Myrtle.”

“Myrtle?”