onsole the injured feelings
of Blake. Probably she would have had a little court of lordlings,
Merton reflected (not that Mr. Macrae had any taste for them), but
everybody knew that, what with the weather, and the crofters, and the
grouse disease, the sport at Castle Skrae was remarkably bad. So the
party was tiny, though a number of people were expected later, and Merton
and the heiress had been on what, as he ruefully reflected, were very
kind terms--rather more than kind, he had hoped, or feared, now and then.
Merton saw that he had annoyed her, and thrown her, metaphorically
speaking, into the arms of the Irish minstrel. All the better, perhaps,
he thought, ruefully. The poet was handsome enough to be one that
'limners loved to paint, and ladies to look upon.' He generally took
chaff well, and could give it, as well as take it, and there were hours
when his sentiment and witchery had a chance with most women. 'But Lady
Bude says there is nothing in it, and women usually know,' he reflected.
Well, he must leave the girl, and save his self-respect.

When nothing more in the way of pottering could be done at the stables,
when its proprietor had exhausted the pleasure of staring at the balloon
in its hall, and had fed the fowls, he walked with Merton down the
avenue, above the shrunken burn that whispered among its ferns and
alders, to meet the returning church-goers. The Budes came first,
together; they were still, they were always, honeymooning. Mr. Macrae
turned back with Lady Bude; Merton walked with Bude, Blake and Miss
Macrae were not yet in sight. He thought of walking on to meet them--but
no, it must not be.

'Blake owes you a rare candle, Merton,' said Bude, adding, 'A great deal
may be done, or said, in a long walk by a young man with his advantages.
And if you had not had your knife in him last night I do not think she
would have accompanied us this morning to attend the ministrations of
Father McColl. He preached in Gaelic.'

'That must have been edifying,' said Merton, wincing.

'The effect, when one does not know the language, and is within six feet
of an energetic Celt in the pulpit, is rather odd,' said Bude. 'But you
have put your foot in it, not a doubt of that.'

This appeared only too probable. The laggards arrived late for luncheon,
and after luncheon Miss Macrae allowed Blake to read his manuscript poems
to her in the hall, and to discuss the prospects of the Celtic drama.
Afterwar