Ben Nevis, as Carrie had expected, was definitely peeved when Myrtle announced her intention of spending a quiet morning by herself instead of driving in the Daimler to Knocknacolly.

“But what will you do with yourself by yourself?” he asked

“Oh, I’ll amuse myself.”

The patriarch eyed his two sons farther down the table. They had just banked up their plates with bacon, eggs, kidneys and sausages, and were apparently oblivious of anything else. However, he was going to send that cable to Hector and therefore it was a waste of time bothering about Murdoch or Iain. He had given them their chance. They had failed to grasp it.

“Well, I’m sorry you won’t come and give your opinion of Knocknacolly, Myrtle. It’s the best twelve-head forest in Inverness-shire. The lodge is a bit old-fashioned, but it could easily be turned into a delightful place. You’ve not done any stalking yet. I’m looking forward to a day on Ben Booey with you soon.”

He turned to Chester Royde.

“What you’ll like about Knocknacolly, Royde, is its remoteness, and as for you, Carrie, I think Knocknacolly is going to be the dream of your childhood come true, if I may express myself rather poetically, what?”

“It sounds wonderful, Ben Nevis.”

“Well, it is a wonderful place. I never knew you thought of selling it, Hugh.”

Kilwhillie, who for the last ten years had been thinking almost incessantly of selling Knocknacolly, tried to look startled by his own recklessness.

“Oh, of course, we none of us like parting with land, Donald. Still, when you find the ideal purchaser … however, perhaps Royde won’t like Knocknacolly.”

“Like it? Of course he’ll like it,” Ben Nevis shouted. “Nobody could help liking Knocknacolly. Ah, by Jove, Hugh, we’ve had some great days in that forest. Do you remember when …” and for the rest of breakfast he talked of the stags he and Kilwhillie had stalked over thirty years. Carrie encouraged him whenever his reminiscences showed signs of flagging. She thought he was much better occupied stalking stags than Scottish Nationalists.

At ten o’clock Johnnie Macpherson drove to the front courtyard with the pre-1914 Daimler, riding in which was like riding in a Victorian boudoir on the back of an elephant. That it still appeared spacious when loaded with Ben Nevis, his two hefty daughters, the Roydes, Kilwhillie and Johnnie Macpherson the chauffeur was a tribute to life as it was once lived.

Catriona and Mary MacDonald were to desert the party at the entrance of Glenbogle. They wanted the pleasure of what they described as a little jog back to the Castle for lunch by way of the bridle-path across Glenbristle. This meant as a preliminary footing it along five miles of road long out of repair, because Ben Nevis with all his territorial influence had failed as yet to become a member of the Roads Committee of the County Council.