“You don’t shoot, salmon, James,” said his friend, a little irritably. He was inclined to deplore James’s manners in criticizing lairds like this when the guest of the one on whose land they were camping was their guest.

“Salmon fishing I was going to say if you hadn’t chipped in so smartly,” James Buchanan snapped.

“And your tartan is even more gay than Mr Macmillan’s,” Garrie interposed. “It has every colour imaginable in it.”

“Too many, I think,” said Alan.

“Not one too many,” James declared passionately. “Just because the Macmillans can’t think beyond two colours that doesn’t say the Buchanans are to be bound by them. We let you have your red and yellow and kept a few of our own besides.”

“A few!” Alan exclaimed. “You have the whole spectrum.”

“Look here, Alan Macmillan, I’d be glad to hear the reasons on which you base your right to sneer at the Buchanan tartan.”

“I was not sneering at it. I simply said I thought it was too polychromatic.”

“Alan, you’re awful fond of trying to skate out of rash statements on long words. But that won’t work with me. You sneered at the Buchanan tartan. I want to know why.”

“I was not sneering. I merely expressed my personal preference for fewer colours.”

“So our clan tartans are all to be re-designed to fit in with your private taste in colours. Well, that’s a good one, right enough. Gosh! You really are the limit, Alan.”

Carrie felt it was time to intervene again.

“I’m sure Mr Macmillan would never think of changing that very lovely tartan of yours, Mr Buchanan.”

“He’d better try,” James muttered.

“Personally, I think they’re both beautiful tartans. And, as I said just now, they make my own Ben Nevis MacDonald look quite drab. But I wish you’d tell me some more about this terrible condition of Scotland, because I assure you I do feel so distressed about it.”

For the rest of the way to the camp James Buchanan rattled off statistics, a confusing business always but rendered more confusing in his case by the indistinctness of his enunciation.

“So I think you’ll admit, Mistress Royde, that I was not exaggerating when I said a while back that Scotland was practically dead,” he concluded.

Carrie came back to consciousness with a start.

“Indeed you certainly did not, Mr. Buchanan. But I feel they ought to know all that in Canada … why, there are your tents I do declare. Aren’t they cute? … Yes, I think you and Mr Macmillan ought to come over to Canada and explain about the state of affairs in Scotland. I’m sure you’d have a most sympathetic audience. And I could give you letters of introduction to so many people who would be helpful.”