“No, no, James, that isn’t fair,” Carrie interposed. “Alan is learning Gaelic because he knows that the life of a nation is its language.”

And this started another argument, and so with arguments and plans for the future and a few statistics from James and an early tea it was four o’clock, and with the rain seeming to abate Carrie and Myrtle decided they ought to be going back to the Castle.

“My dears, you’re drenched,” Mrs MacDonald boomed in dismay when they arrived home. “Where have you been?”

“We found a cave to shelter in,” said Carrie. “Mr Fletcher told us about it. And we had a lovely, lazy day. It’s only now coming home that we got so wet.”

But when Chester arrived back about a quarter-past seven it seemed absurd for her or Carrie to talk about being wet.

“Oh, Chester, I’ve never seen anybody so wet. Did you fall into the river? And oh my, Chester, what have you done to your face? My dear, it’s bigger than a pumpkin.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had a bath,” he replied.

“Did you kill a stag, Chester?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure going to. I’ve taken a kind of dislike to stags. You can arrange Knocknacolly as you like, Carrie, but I want one biggish room set apart for me. I aim to cover the walls of it with stags’ heads.”

“And is stalking good sport?”

“Stalking isn’t a sport at all, Carrie, but killing stags is a duty.”

“Do go and bathe your eyes, Chester.”

“If I can get at them,” he said, moving in the direction of the bathroom.

Downstairs in the Great Hall Ben Nevis, quite as wet as his guest but unmarked by a single midge’s bite, was waving a cablegram and shouting to everybody who came in that Hector had been given his leave and hoped to be home by the twenty-eighth.

“My, isn’t that splendid!” said Myrtle.

“You’ll like him, Myrtle. He takes after me in every way. Voice, figure, features and general outlook on life. Well, we had rather a disappointing day, but what of it? There are plenty of other days. Fill up your glass, Hugh.”

The laird of Kilwhillie came over to Carrie.

“We managed to get the measurements you wanted.”

“Oh, isn’t that kind of you, Kilwhillie! I really am terribly obliged. And I was so sorry about your lunch. I didn’t realize all the lunches were in my basket. What did you do?”

“Oh, it was quite all right. We got a snack at my house.”

“I’m writing off to our lawyer to-morrow. So will you let me have the name of yours? I’m longing to feel Knocknacolly is really mine, and I shall want your advice about so many things.”

Kilwhillie tugged at his moustache, and bowed.

“I will always be at your service, Mrs Royde.”