And Ben Nevis, reflected Carrie, was the man whom the Scottish Brotherhood of Action wanted to shake out of a humdrum complacency and forcibly extricate from a rut.

Chapter 4

DINNER POSTPONED

IT WAS THE Lady of Ben Nevis among his immediate entourage who first ventured to question the wisdom of the Chieftain’s high-handed action, catching him at the moment when he reached his dressing-room from the bath, herself already dressed for dinner. He found her there in black satin, a great catafalque occupying valuable space required for his own toilet.

“What do you want, Trixie?” he asked, a touch of slightly querulous apprehension in his tone which the consciousness that he had nothing on beneath his flowered-silk dressing-gown did not allow him to neutralize by a masterful gesture of patriarchal authority.

“I want to have a little talk with you, Donald, before dinner,” the Lady of Ben Nevis boomed placidly. Dame Clara Butt answering the diapason of the Albert Hall organ was never more sure of herself. Mrs MacDonald’s sway over her husband was a miniature (though perhaps miniature is an infelicitous word to use in her connection) of the sway which England exerts over Scotland. Mrs MacDonald, to put it shortly, had the money. Her father, a magnate of English business, had invested a considerable amount in the marriage of his only daughter to the Highland Chieftain, and he had taken care to see that his money was not lost by leaving a large sum in trust for her and her children after he had presented his son-in-law with enough to put the estate in order.

“Look at the time, Trixie,” said her husband reproachfully. “And I have to shave as well as dress.”

“You can get on with your shaving and dressing while we have our little talk, Donald. You shouldn’t have dallied so long talking to Hugh Cameron.”

Ben Nevis puffed out a sigh for feminine obstinacy and began to strop his razor.

“You know what I want to talk about, Donald?”

“Haven’t the ghost of a notion,” he replied, with what they both knew was but a feeble simulation of defiance.

“It’s this business on the moors this afternoon.”

“Oh, these hikers, you mean. Well, why are you worrying yourself about them?”

“I am worrying about them for many reasons, Donald, but chiefly on your account.”

“There’s nothing to worry about on my account, as I told Lindsay-Wolseley this afternoon,” said Ben Nevis.

“Oh, Colonel Wolseley was worried, was he? I can’t say I’m surprised, Donald. He’s such a nice sensible man, and Mrs. Wolseley is a very nice sensible woman. And such a good gardener. Her primulas are always a joy. What did Colonel Wolseley say?”

“Talked a lot of nonsense. These fellows who’ve spent half their lives in India always do. I suppose the sun affects them.”

“But what did he say, Donald?”