“You’re getting awful absent-minded these days, Alan,” said his friend severely. “It’s a good job Robert and I don’t go about with our heads in the clouds the way you do.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs Royde,” said the poet. “But I really hadn’t understood you expected me to go for a drive with you to-day. How is Miss Royde?”

Carrie shook her head.

“James, I guess you’ve put the Scottish Brotherhood of Action into town clothes as well as yourself. Myrtle’s very well, Alan. Come on, we ought to be moving. It’s too bad leaving Mr Menzies behind. But I know he wants to work at his plans.”

“Och, he’s back at work on them already,” said James. “He’s just living in a dream. Though if he’d arranged to go for a drive with a lady he wouldn’t have forgotten it,” James added severely. “Imphm! I’m telling you, Alan.”

When the Austin reached the gates of Glenbogle Castle Carrie was inspired by the two water-horses mordant on their pillars to park Alan and the car by a clump of pines and walk up the drive with James. Her original intention had been to bring Alan back to lunch, but she decided it would be more fun to picnic with him tête-à-tête, and in view of her proposed self-abnegation she considered that she was entitled to the pleasure of such a tête-à-tête.

“I’ll come back for you when I’ve introduced James to my husband. He’ll be having lunch at the Castle, before they drive to Inverness.”

“And you’re not going to be there?” asked James, aghast at the prospect before him.

“No, I want you business men to get together,” said Carrie firmly.

To her surprise she found Chester had doffed the kilt and was back in one of his rural costumes from the full-page colour advertisements of Esquire.

“Why, Chester, Mr Buchanan wouldn’t wear his lovely rainbow of a kilt and now you’re not wearing yours.”

“Well, it was Kilwhillie. According to him there’s a prejudice in Inverness against anybody they don’t know wearing a kilt. There’s some kind of a Klu Klux Klan of a Kilt Society, it appears, which takes action against outsiders. I couldn’t understand what it was all about, but he set off on such a rigmarole I got tired of it and changed. Do you know anything about this kilt society, Mr Buchanan?”

“All kilt societies are ridiculous exhibitions of snobbishness, Mr Royde,” James Buchanan declared.

“Well, what about beating up this particular one some day?” Chester asked.

“It’s what it requires,” said James sternly.

“I’m glad to hear you agree with me,” Chester said. “I guess if you and I and your two friends at Knocknacolly went into Inverness in our kilts we’d make that bum society look pretty foolish.”