By the time Lachlan Macdonald arrived with the boat, Carrie was a mile away along the banks of Loch Hoch, and the red-and-yellow of Alan’s kilt seemed no larger than a bandana handkerchief.

“It’s all right, Myrtle,” said Hector. “The Austin is still there. She’s evidently only gone for a stroll with whatever it is she’s strolling with. Shall we have a shot with Hopkinson’s Belted Pinkhead while we’re waiting for her to come back?”

Myrtle danced with impatience.

“I don’t want to fish any more, Hector. I’m tired of fishing. It’s a bromide sport anyway. You stay here and fling your imitation bugs about. I’m going to walk along and meet Carrie.”

Any mortification Hector felt at being thus deserted was forgotten when on Hopkinson’s Belted Pinkhead he caught a couple of pounders and a two-pounder in quick succession.

“There you are, Lachy,” he roared in triumph. “I knew that was the fly for them.”

“Oh yes, she’s a good fly, right enough, Master Hector. A pity we didn’t try her earlier when the young lady was with us.”

“Yes, it was a pity, but you Can never tell with trout.”

“No, trout are very fanciful, right enough. Very like the women themselves, Master Hector.”

“Tell me, Lachy, how are you getting on since you married? Do you like married life?”

“Well, there’s a great deal to be said for marriage in one way, Master Hector; but there’s a great deal to be said against it. Och, yes, you might call it a position for a man betwixt and between happiness and misery. That’s what I would call married life.”

“Myrtle darling!” her sister-in-law cried when she met them beside the loch. “Where did you spring from?”

“Didn’t you hear me calling to you, Carrie?”

“Was that you calling? What do you say to that, Alan? Alan and I thought it was birds.”

“You’re both of you pretty dumb if you thought that was birds. I guess parrots don’t fly around wild in these parts. Do you mean to say you couldn’t hear me call ‘Carrie!’?”

“But Alan and I weren’t expecting you down here, were we, Alan?”

The poet’s promise of obedience extracted from him by Carrie before they left the Pass of Ballochy had been severely strained by the command not to pay any attention to Myrtle’s voice. He did not think it was fair of her to demand such testimony. His lips moved, but it was his eyes that spoke.

“Listen, honey,” murmured Carrie, “wouldn’t you like to drive Alan back to Knocknacolly in my funny little runabout? You remember that poem he read us about peaty water? Well, he’s added one or two lines to it and even if you didn’t understand it before I guess you’ll understand it now.”

“What about Hector?” Myrtle asked.