“The country’s practically dead, Miss Royde,” James Buchanan assured her earnestly. “Do you realize the rate at which our industries are being moved south? It’s really fearful. When I tell you that in Kilmarnock no less than …”

“Don’t start giving statistics now, James,” his friend interrupted a little irritably. “Miss Royde is American. She has no interest in Scottish politics.”

“Oh, but that isn’t true, Alan. Since you said your poem and I’ve learnt that the dark-brown water of life is the image of the Scottish Brotherhood of Action I’ve become terribly interested in Scottish politics.”

James Buchanan’s bullet-head swung round. So she was calling him ‘Alan’ already, and by the look in the other one’s eye the other one wasn’t too pleased about it. He would have to warn Alan again. She was a nice wee lassie, but she was not the owner of Knocknacolly, and it was Alan’s duty to do nothing that might endanger the latter’s interest in the S.B.A.

“Myrtle, how can you say that?” Carrie exclaimed. It was true she had failed to identify her sister-in-law with the dark-brown water of life, but she was under no illusions about her sudden interest in Scottish politics.

“But, Carrie, I am. There’s something about the atmosphere here which seems to illuminate my real ego. And I think Chester feels it too. I’m wondering if we haven’t perhaps Scotch blood …”

“I wish you wouldn’t say Scotch blood as if it was broth or whisky,” Carrie interrupted. “Anyway, Chester never suggested you had Scotch blood. The ancestor he’s proud of is that Hungarian great-grandmother of yours.”

“Marka Tiktok. Yes, well, she was a very very exceptional woman and kind of took the shine out of the rest. But there’s a lot more great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers, and the more I think about it the more positive I feel that one of them came from the Highlands.”

“The more you think about anything the more you can think what you want to feel,” Carrie pointed out.

“I don’t know why you’re so grudging about my Scottish blood. Chester would be tickled to death to find he had Scottish blood. For all you know, Carrie, that may have been the attraction which brought you two together.”

Myrtle was tempted to suggest herself as a member of the Scottish Brotherhood of Action, but she did not want to ruffle her sister-in-law’s red hair by trespassing upon her private romantic property and she refrained. After all, a young man whose attraction Carrie had discovered first had written a poem about herself. She could afford to be generous. And Carrie was very sweet. If Alan wore well and if she herself should decide it was something more than the beginning of a pleasant summer flirtation Carrie would be helpful and understanding. That was certain.