Kilwhillie was not inclined to hero-worship, but the Duke of Ross he had long worshipped not for his rank but for his infallible judgment on any question connected with Highland dress, jewellery, use, custom, lore, genealogy and coat-armour.

And as if in answer to his unspoken thoughts Colonel Lindsay-Wolseley asked him at this moment why he had allowed that American fellow to rig himself out in that extraordinary get-up.

“It’s not my business, Wolseley,” Kilwhillie snapped. “I’m not his tailor.”

“No, no, of course not,” said the Colonel soothingly. He had never heard Kilwhillie bite like this at a remark. “I just thought with a great authority like you at hand he’d have taken the chance of a little good advice. I wish the Duke had been able to come to-day. I can just imagine what he would have said.”

The Colonel chuckled to himself, and then concentrated on the eleventh performance of the pibroch chosen for the competition.

Kilwhillie hunched himself moodily in his chair. On many a previous morning when Glenbogle gathered he had sat wrapped in his plaid while the rain poured down, listening much more cheerfully to the same composition played over and over again.

In another part of the field the competition for putting the stone was proceeding, to describe which would be even more tedious than to watch it.

This, indeed, was the hour of the Glenbogle Gathering, when those who were wandering round the field asked themselves why they had arrived only two hours late. The friends from Fort Augustus or Fort William they were expecting to meet and with whom they were hoping to enjoy a fruitful gossip had not yet arrived. Even from Kenspeckle only one busload had been delivered as yet.

Myrtle Royde, catching the prevailing mood, was thinking how pleasant it would be if among the spectators the red and yellow of the Macmillan tartan, brighter even than that tango kilt Chester was wearing, should suddenly flicker into view, when a voice barked in her ear:

“Enjoying yourself? You’re looking very thoughtful.”

She turned to see young Ben Nevis smiling down at her.

“I was wondering just exactly what they were doing with that stone.”

“Putting it.”

“Putting it where?”

“As far as they can. Iain’s ahead now with his second put. I think myself he’ll win, though old Murdoch usually fetches up a bit of extra beef for his third put.”

“I can’t pretend to be terribly excited, Lootenant.”

Young Ben Nevis blinked. His father had pressed upon him the immense advantage it would be to consider Myrtle Royde as a prospective Twenty-fourth Lady of Ben Nevis, but like his brother Murdoch before him he was a little startled to be addressed as Lieutenant with the pronunciation ‘Lootenant.’

“I say, don’t call me that,” he begged.

“Well, what do I call you? Ben Nevis Junior sounds kind of awkward to me.”

“Couldn’t you manage ‘Hector’?”