James Buchanan caught Myrtle’s sidelong glance, and his brow puckered. Two of them, within twenty-four hours, he reflected. However, this one was not married. He wished he did not have to go back to Glasgow to-morrow. If Alan stayed here in defiance of those ‘No Camping’ notices, it looked as if things would be amusing.

“Are you rested now, Miss Royde?” he asked. “Would you like to see our camp?”

“I’d adore to see your camp if it isn’t very far,” Myrtle assured them. “But I have to be back by half-past one to lunch. Oh, I know, perhaps I’ll be picked up by the car. I’m getting pretty good at walking, but I’m not a world-beater yet.”

“It’s about a mile further up the glen,” she was told.

“I guess I can crawl as far as that.”

Myrtle was right. She did manage to reach the camp, where the two little green tents were pitched on the level sward in the shelter of the granite escarpment.

“I’m devoted to Ben Nevis as I told you, but I can’t for the life of me see why he objects to two cunning little green tents like these,” she commented. “Why, they hardly take up any more room than a couple of lettuces.” She turned to Alan Macmillan. “Which is yours?”

He showed her and she peeped in to admire the sleeping-bag.

“Is that some of your poetry?” she asked, pointing to an open exercise-book, the manuscript in which was covered with erasures and corrections.

“It’s something I’m working at, yes,” the bard admitted unwillingly.

A picture presented itself to Myrtle’s mind, the picture of herself living in a little green tent like this and listening some of the time to birdsong and the rest of the time to poetry inspired by herself, a melodious and carefree existence. She looked at her watch, one of the most expensive that ever came out of Tiffany’s.

“Oh dear, I’d like to stay, but I suppose I ought to be getting back to Glenbogle if I’m not going to miss that ride back in the car,” she sighed.

What’s the matter, Miss Royde?” the lawyer asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking what a false existence we most of us lead. This is real life.”

“It’s all right when it’s fine,” the bard allowed.

“Yes, I dare say if it’s pouring with rain you might feel it was just a little bit too real.” She sighed again. “It seems a pity you shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy this lovely weather. Would your pride be terribly hurt if I were to ask Ben Nevis as a special favour to let you camp here in peace? Mind you, I can’t be absolutely sure he’d give you permission, but I’ve a notion he would listen to me.”