“Well, of course over in America we’ve always had the idea that it rained a whole lot in Scotland all the time,” said Royde. “But this is great weather.”

“Mind you, I’m not going to pretend it never rains in the West Highlands,” said Ben Nevis with a generous frankness. “Oh no, it does rain sometimes. By Jove, Hugh, look at Loch na Craosnaich. I’ve never seen it so low—this year, I mean,” he added quickly. “That’s where our ancestor Hector of the Great Jaw drowned eleven Macintoshes in the year 1482, Carrie.” He indicated a stretch of water menacingly dark even upon this fine day. “I call him our ancestor because he’s pretty sure to be an ancestor of yours. He had twenty-two sons. One of them, Murdoch Ruadh, was famous for the violent red of his hair, and his descendants known as Clan Vurich lived in Glenbristle. I dare say that jolly hair of yours was inherited from Murdoch Ruadh.”

“Why, that’s great, Carrie,” her husband exclaimed. “That’s a name for us to remember some happy day.”

Carrie blushed.

“You’ll have to drop a fly on Loch na Craosnaich, Carrie, one of these days. I don’t fish much myself nowadays. Too slow for me. But Kilwhillie’s a great hand with a rod. Yes, I more or less gave up fishing after I caught that forty-eight pounder in Loch Hoo five years ago. What a battle! He took a Blue and Yellow Flying Dutchman which I used quite by accident, because I’d always used Simpson’s Green Boobytrap on Loch Hoo until then. But I hadn’t a Boobytrap with me that morning and I used this Blue and Yellow Flying Dutchman which Bertie Bottley was always plaguing me to try. I’d no faith in it at all. None whatever. But I was wrong. Yes, extraordinary thing, I was wrong. Well, to cut a tall story short—ha-ha—this fellow took the Blue and Yellow Flying Dutchman at five minutes past eleven on a beautiful fishing morning and I played him till three o’clock that afternoon. What a battle! Forty-eight pounds, five ounces and a half. And as clean-run a salmon as ever I saw. Of course I had plenty of other fish after that, but they didn’t give me the fights I wanted and so gradually I more or less gave up the rod. Always know when to stop, that’s been my motto, ever since I left Harrow.”

Soon after this cautionary tale the entrance to Glenbogle was reached and the Daimler stopped for Catriona and Mary to alight. The two young women gave an unemotional wave over their hefty shoulders and then immediately set out to walk back up the glen at four miles an hour.