The laird of Kilwhillie was again staying in the Castle to support his old friend as always on any great Glenbogle occasion. It might have been expected that after receiving £1,000 more for Knocknacolly than he had agreed to accept he would have been in high spirits, but he was not. The Celtic melancholy in which he was frequently plunged had never appeared so profound. He was almost like a man brooding over some presentiment of disaster, and when addressed seemed to emerge with a start from some dark world of his own horror-haunted imagination.

“I said, ‘Can you understand this infernal weather, Hugh?’” Ben Nevis barked more loudly.

“It’s the usual weather we get about now.”

“I never heard such nonsense.”

“I cannot recall more than two Gatherings without any rain at all.”

“What a preposterous statement, Hugh! Why, it didn’t rain last year.”

“That is one of the Gatherings I was thinking of.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you. Have you had any bad news?”

“No, no,” said the laird of Kilwhillie, sighing deeply.

“I haven’t seen you so gloomy since that champion Belted Galloway cow of yours got bogged and had to be destroyed. You must cheer up. I think the glass has gone up a fraction since morning. We shall probably have a splendid Gathering. Twenty-one coming to lunch, which with ourselves in the Castle will make thirty-four. Royde is keen as mustard on the Gathering.”

Kilwhillie looked even gloomier if possible.

“He is, is he? Did he say why particularly?”

“Well, it’ll be a new experience for him, won’t it?”

“Oh yes, quite. Yes, a new experience. I hope it won’t be very sunny.”

“Why on earth don’t you want it to be sunny? I hope the sun will blaze down,” Ben Nevis declared, and rushing across to the aneroid barometer he drummed on it a roll that should have roused Napoleon himself from the tomb.

“Yes, I think the glass really is inclined to go up at last,” he declared.

“Who are coming on Saturday?” Kilwhillie asked.

“Well, the Lindsay-Wolseleys of course, and Bertie Bottley and Jack Fraser and Rawstorne, and oh, well, the usual crowd. Macintosh was coming, but he has some ploy of his own. Lochiel can’t come either. Nor can Dunstaffnage. Ross was coming, but he wired me this morning he wouldn’t be able to manage it.”

“The Duke, you mean?”

“Yes. Did you mutter, ‘thank God,’ Hugh?”

“No, I was only clearing my throat.”

“I always thought you liked Ross.”

“So I do,” said Kilwhillie warmly. “I like him and respect him. I consider him the greatest living authority on Highland dress. You’re sure he’s not coming?”