Thus it was that Mrs Chester Royde Jr. found herself gazing from the window in the North Tower of Glenbogle Castle at the shapes of the Three Sisters of Glenbogle, dreaming majestically in the flickering haze of a fine Twelfth of August morning.

When the rest of the party had been mustered by their host to shoot the grouse or watch them being shot on his most prolific moors which swept between the braes of Strathdun and the braes of Strathdiddle, Carrie Royde, surrendering to the Lone Shieling complex of her youth, had expressed a desire to enjoy by herself the solitude of Glenbogle.

“I just want to make the most of this lovely weather, Ben Nevis,” she told the Chieftain. “And I’m feeling kind of remote and mysterious. I feel as if anything might happen to me if I go and search for it alone.”

“Well, don’t go and sprain your ankle or anything,” said Ben Nevis, who believed that a heavy bag of grouse was the way to make the most of the weather but had too much respect for the Royde millions to discourage anybody in close touch with them from the utmost extravagance of emotional self-indulgence.

“Carrie and I will find plenty to do to amuse ourselves,” Mrs MacDonald boomed confidently.

Carrie Royde threw a slanting glance from greenish eyes at her monumental hostess and said quickly that the very last thing she should think of being was the least responsibility.

“I know you have lots and lots to do without bothering yourself about me, dear Mrs MacDonald. So please, if I may just have a little packet of sandwiches and a few crackers I’ll go wandering off by myself and spend the day with my dreams.”

“But won’t that be rather dull for you?” the hostess suggested anxiously.

“You let her do as she likes, Trixie,” Ben Nevis adjured. “She’s going to look for the fairies. I can see it in her eye.”