“Oh, for the love of Mike, Carrie, don’t start a political argument,” her husband begged.

“Oh, she’s not arguing,” said Ben Nevis. “That’s her MacDonald blood asserting itself. But look here, Carrie, if my great-grandfather hadn’t forced your great-great-grandfather to go to Canada you wouldn’t be driving to look at Knocknacolly with a view to buying it. You’d still be living in Glenbristle. You haven’t seen Glenbristle yet, Royde, have you? Johnnie, you can turn the car at the end of the road in Glenbristle?”

“Oh yes, Ben Nevis.”

“Well, I’ll run you up Glenbristle as far as the road goes. It’s only about three miles.”

“No, no, please, Ben Nevis,” Carrie begged. “Chester and I can go there to-morrow or any time. I do think we ought to concentrate on Knocknacolly this morning.”

Kilwhillie’s moustache, which had flagged at the proposal to explore Glenbristle, recovered itself as he acknowledged Carrie’s firmness with a grateful if slightly melancholy smile.

“All right, Johnnie, keep right on,” said the Chieftain. “I’m glad you’re so interested in Knocknacolly. I won’t deny I’ve set my heart on you two charming people having a place not too far away from Glenbogle. I mean to say, if you take the bridle-paths you’ll hardly be ten miles from us. How long do you reckon it takes you to walk to Knocknacolly by bridle-path, Mary?”

“Three hours if it hasn’t been raining for a day or two,” she growled.

“About five if it has,” her sister added.

“Which it usually has,” Mary growled.

There was a curious resemblance between the expression of Ben Nevis at that moment and the expression of one of the water-horses mordant that surmounted the pillars of the Castle gates.

“Now don’t exaggerate about our rain, Mary,” he said, directing this expression at his daughter. “People will exaggerate about our weather, Royde,” he added. “What could you want better than to-day? And this is typical of the West Highlands in August.”

Mary and Catriona turned round and looked at their father in amazement. They had heard him tell tall stories about stags and salmon, about the prowess of the Ben Nevis Macdonalds in clan feuds with the Macintoshes, and about orations he had made at meetings of the County Council; but they had never heard a story the tallness of which came within measurable distance of the one he had just told about West Highland weather in August.

“You’d call to-day a typical August day, wouldn’t you, Hugh?” he went on.

Kilwhillie grabbed his moustache as a drowning man clutches at a straw.

“Oh yes, Donald. I should call this a typical fine August day,” he replied.

Ben Nevis’s countenance had reverted to that water-horse mordant expression as he glared at his daughters, defying them to contribute any further to the discussion.