“I promised my mother I’d be back in Glasgow in another week. She wants to go and stay with some friends in Perth and I said I’d go with her.”

“Why doesn’t your father go with her?”

“My father’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, of course you must take your mother to Perth. How long do you think you’ll stay there? I’m asking all these questions because I know Mrs Royde will expect me to come back full of the latest correct information about your movements. She took such a very great fancy to you both.”

“I expect we’ll be in Perth about a week.”

“And then?”

“Oh, I expect I’ll go back to Glasgow.”

“That reminds me. Mrs Royde wants your address and Mr Buchanan’s address. She liked Mr Buchanan so very much. She spoke with such deep admiration of his grasp of statistics.”

“I’ll give you our addresses when we get back to the tents.”

Myrtle sighed.

“Why do you sigh?” the bard asked.

“I was thinking how sad life was so often. I mean to say, look at us. Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing. Only a look and a … and a … how does it go on?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. You understand what I mean. I’ll go back to America at the end of next month by the latest. And you’re going to Perth next week. Of course I might see you again while you’re living in your cave. But I might not. This may be the last time we ever meet.”

“I hope not,” said the bard, and his eyes were now a melting blue that Myrtle found even more entrancing than when they were lighted by the flame of prospective combat.

“Do you really hope not?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, of course Mrs Royde and I might come along together either to-morrow or the next day. My sister-in-law’s so very romantic. I think she’ll be crazy to see your cave. Now, I’m not romantic at all. I suppose that shocks you as a poet?”

“Not in the least,” said the bard. “I am extremely anti-romantic myself.”

“You are? Well, that’s another link between us because I pride myself on being intensely practical. But that isn’t quite fair to Carrie—Carrie is my sister-in-law. She is romantic, but she is also intensely practical. Perhaps not quite as practical as me. I’m so practical you could almost call me hard-boiled.”

“Well, being very practical myself,” said the bard, “I only admire practical women.”

“Didn’t I hear your friend Mr Buchanan call you ‘Alan’?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”