“That’s a sublimation of the libido,” Alan Macmillan asserted. “Canadian Scots being mostly descendants of evicted Gaels long to score off their oppressors, and they sublimate this longing by being more imperialist than the imperialists who first exploited them a hundred years ago. I’m afraid James is right. Scotland is practically dead.”

“That’s very discouraging news to hear on coming back to the land of one’s forefathers. It certainly is. But why do you blame a nice man like Ben Nevis?”

“You needn’t look beyond these empty glens for the answer to that one,” said Buchanan.

“Can’t anything be done about it?” Carrie asked.

“We are doing our best,” he told her.

“Who are you?” she asked, piqued by the slight suggestion of portentousness in the emphasis on the first person plural.

The two young men looked at one another, each with a question in his eyes. Both almost imperceptibly shook their heads.

“It’s a society we belong to,” said Alan Macmillan, after an awkward pause. He was upset by the thought that this pleasant red-haired Canadian should be fancying he and James distrusted her.

“A secret society,” James Buchanan added quickly.

“Isn’t that thrilling?” Carrie exclaimed. “I do wish you’d tell me more about it.”

“I’m afraid we can’t very well,” Alan Macmillan said apologetically. “You see, it’s a political secret society. Look here, would you like to come up the glen to our camp? It’s about a mile from here. We can give you some tea.”

“Why, I’d love a cup of tea. Aren’t you an angel child?”

Buchanan’s dark eyebrows beetled in his bullet head. He did not trust Alan Macmillan’s imperviousness to feminine wiles. However, if she thought she was going to be able to secure a tete-a-tete with Alan by pleading the view from up there as an excuse she was mistaken.

“Well, I must say I never expected to find two Highland beaux in Glenbristle,” Carrie said, when she and the two young men were walking up the glen toward their camp. And to herself she added the reflection that only in dreams had she ventured to hope she should behold anything so attractive as Alan Macmillan with his fair wavy hair and his melting blue eyes and clear-cut rose-browned features.

“What a gay tartan the Macmillan is,” she exclaimed. “It makes my Ben Nevis MacDonald look quite dingy. My husband would go crazy about that. He just worships colour.”

“Is your husband staying at Glenbogle Castle?” Alan asked.

“Yes, he’s away up on the moors to-day shooting grouse with our host.”

Had Carrie but known it, this was the very moment when on the braes of Strathdiddle Ben Nevis had just silenced the crooner with the contents of both barrels.

“The Twelfth of August, eh?” James Buchanan growled. “That’s all these lairds think about. Shooting stags and grouse and salmon …”