“It should not,” said the chaplain, a gentle deprecation in his voice.

“Oh, I’m not suggesting that’s the whole object of religion, though, by Jove, after arguing at council meetings with one or two of those ministers from the West, I might be excused if I did think so. No, all I mean is I think religion should be kept out of ordinary life. But I’ll always maintain religion’s the finest thing in the world in its proper place. I’ve always maintained that, haven’t I, Trixie?”

“Always, Donald,” his wife replied, with such a glance at the chaplain as the soft pedal of a piano might give did a soft pedal possess eyes.

Not that Mr Fletcher required the warning. He had not lived at Glenbogle for more than ten years to start arguing with Ben Nevis now.

“What about coming for a drive with me in Murdoch’s car, Myrtle?” Hector MacDonald asked. “You don’t mind lending me your car, Murdoch?”

“Not a bit,” Murdoch replied, with the yawn of a watch-keeping lieutenant who hears with relief eight bells sound. He intended to doze away this Sabbath afternoon. “You may sight some of those hiker blokes. Visibility is good.”

“That’s a jolly fine notion of yours, Hector,” his father declared enthusiastically. “Jolly fine. And to-morrow we’ll get a move on.”

“I’d adore to come with you, Hector,” said Myrtle, “but I promised Carrie I’d go with her to Knocknacolly and meet the new architect. And didn’t you tell me, Carrie, there was a young poet or painter you wanted me to meet?”

“That’s all right,” her brother put in. “I’ll go along with Carrie. You can meet these folks another time.”

“But, Chester, wouldn’t you rather rest? You must be feeling terribly weary after yesterday,” his wife urged.

Chester Royde shook his head.

“No, no, I’ll come along with you. I want to talk over one or two ideas of mine with the architect.”

Carrie with the lightest shrug of a shoulder signalled to her sister-in-law that she did not want to discourage Chester’s interest in Knocknacolly, that sooner or later he would have to meet the young men, and that she considered it wiser for Myrtle to give way.

“You realize, don’t you, that Mr Buchanan the lawyer hasn’t arrived yet at Knocknacolly?” she asked when with Chester beside her instead of Myrtle she set off down Glenbogle that Sunday afternoon.

“I know, dear, but it’s the architect I want to see, not the lawyer.”

“Can you move over a little to the left, Chester? I always feel cramped sitting on the wrong side of an automobile the way they do over here.”

“If I move any further along to the left the bulge on this side of your little runabout won’t be any too easy to push in again.”