“I was just telling Mr Buchanan I thought it was a pity to put off his kilt the way he has.”

“Och, no, Mrs Royde,” said James obstinately. “I always draw a sharp distinction between business and pleasure. I wouldn’t feel comfortable arranging a matter of business in the kilt, I really wouldn’t.”

“Where’s Alan?”

James looked round.

“He was here a minute ago. Where did Alan go to, Robert?”

“I don’t know where he went. Will I give him a shout?”

“Oh, that would be kind, Mr Menzies,” said Carrie.

The architect went off to look for the poet, and Carrie turned to the lawyer.

“James, you just have to put on your kilt. I know what I’m talking about. I know my husband. You don’t. I want you to make an impression on him. And listen, James, I want Alan to come with us because, when you and my husband and Mr Hugh Cameron of Kilwhillie go to Inverness to settle up everything at Kilwhillie’s lawyers, I want Alan to go for a ride with me.”

“I’m sorry to disoblige you, Mistress Royde …” the lawyer began.

“There you are, you see, James. You can’t believe you’re a member of the S.B.A. when you’re dressed in those town clothes. You turn all stiff and awkward.”

“Mistress Royde,” the lawyer went on, “you’ve been kinder to me than enough. You’ve been kind to all three of us. I’m grateful to you. I hope you’ll believe that. Very grateful. But all the gratitude I feel could not make me go to the office of Macbeth, Macbeth and Macbean in the kilt.”

“But Kilwhillie and my husband will be wearing kilts,” Carrie argued.

“They’re clients, Mistress Royde. Clients are in a different position. I’m a lawyer. Macbeth, Macbeth and Macbean are lawyers. And they would consider it a very grave breach of legal etiquette if I were to assist at a matter like this, wearing the kilt. It would … it would … well, I just cannot do it, Mistress Royde, even to oblige you.”

Poor James was evidently suffering so acutely that Carrie had not the heart to plague him longer.

“Very well, James, if you feel as strongly as that about it, you must do as you like, but it’s going to be a disappointment to my husband.”

James grinned his relief, and recovered his dignity by asking Alan in his gruffest voice what he was at keeping Mistress Royde waiting like this.

“Waiting for what?” the poet asked, assuming a rival dignity.

“Did you not ken she’s taking you for a ride?”

“I never heard anything about a ride,” the poet protested.

“Oh yes, Alan, we arranged that last time I came to Knocknacolly.”

“I must have forgotten,” he said.