“I hope not. If you start falling down the sooner you go back to your own clothes the better.”

“You’re not nervous about me, are you, Carrie?”

“Well, I rather wish you hadn’t told me about wearing nothing underneath. I’ll feel a bit nervous even about Ben Nevis now. But, look here, you’re dressed or as much dressed as you can be. You’d better go on down to breakfast and let me get dressed.”

“It isn’t breakfast-time yet?”

“What time is it?”

Chester looked at his watch.

“Twenty-five after seven.”

“What?” Carrie gasped indignantly. “And you’re up and dressed already?”

“I wanted to dress myself before Wilton came up. It gives me a kind of kick to keep him in the background over this kilt business. I don’t think he thought I was serious when I said I was going to wear it to-day.”

“What are you going to do till breakfast?”

“I’m going outside to practise walking about by myself.”

Just after eight o’clock when Angus MacQuat was playing the customary aubade beneath the window of his chief, for the first time in twenty years he played a false note in the middle of the lomradh Mhic ’ic Eachainn. It was caused by suddenly catching sight of Chester Royde coming round the corner of the North Tower.

Ben Nevis rushed to the window to let his piper know his mistake had not escaped his ears and received his first sight of Chester Royde.

“My god, Trixie,” he turned to shout at his wife, “there’s a Scottish Nationalist in the Courtyard.”

“Well, you can’t do anything about it in your pyjamas, Donald,” she boomed placidly from the four-poster.

The Chieftain rushed to the window again to demonstrate that he could do something about it and this time recognized his cherished guest.

“Hullo, Royde,” he bellowed down, “this is a very sporting effort on your part. By Jove, it is! All right, Angus, you needn’t go on playing.”

The piper saluted and retired. Just before he vanished round the Castle walls he threw a backward glance over his shoulder, and then with a puzzled shake of the head proceeded on his way to his porridge.

“I can’t quite make out what that tartan is,” Ben Nevis was calling down.

“It isn’t a tartan at all,” Royde replied. “Kilwhillie advised me to steer clear of tartans. This is his idea of a good substitoot.”

“Do you know what I thought you were at first? I thought you were a Scottish Nationalist. I did, upon my soul. Well, I must say it was jolly nice of you, Royde, to think of this way of paying a little tribute to the Gathering. And by Jove, what a day, eh?”

“Some day.”