“Why, I dare say I wouldn’t find it terribly difficult, Hector.”

“That’s topping. Look here, you’ll give me the first eightsome to-night?”

“The first what?”

“The first eightsome reel.”

Myrtle still looked blank.

“It’s a dance.”

“But I don’t know how to dance it.”

“I’ll teach you before dinner. You’ll learn it in no time. I think we’ll manage one or two sixteensomes tonight. But we shan’t get a thirty-twosome. Not enough of us.”

“Isn’t that too bad? Tell me, Hector, what do you think of my brother in his kilt? I think he looks cute, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why Hugh Cameron made him get an orange kilt.”

“I’d call that colour more of a tango than an orange.”

“Personally I should have advised him to get a grey one.”

“But Chester’s crazy on colour.”

“Oh, great put, Murdoch! Bravo!” young Ben Nevis barked. “I thought old Murdoch would call up some extra beef for the third round. He’s a good foot beyond Iain now. Oh, good one, Kenny!”

“Who are you cheering now?”

“That’s Kenny Macdonald, our blacksmith. He’s an inch or two better than Murdoch, I fancy. Yes, I thought so.”

A light crepitation of applause from the few who were watching the putting was audible above the piping.

“Now it’s Iain’s last put. Oh, jolly good, Iain! Jolly good indeed!” the eldest brother exclaimed. “Did you see that last put, Dad?” he shouted across the field to the Chieftain enthroned on the mound.

“Jolly good!” the Chieftain bellowed back.

The two or three competitors left failed to come within a couple of feet of Iain, who emerged from the contest as the winner amid general enthusiasm.

“We’ll probably go back to the Castle now for lunch,” said Hector.

“That’ll be more exciting, won’t it?” Myrtle suggested.

“Oh, putting the stone’s pretty exciting,” Hector insisted.

“Is it?” Myrtle asked doubtfully. “Well, I wasn’t terribly thrilled by it. It’s about the least exciting thing I’ve seen since I came to Glenbogle.”