ull tried to charge Blunderbore, but changed his mind at the last
moment owing to the persuasions of his female friends. The rough,
dark brown forms somehow emphasized the beauty of the wild
background, the hills painted golden and purple with bracken and
heather, the mountains (for there seem always to be mountains in
the distance in Scotland) looking exactly the colour of violets
against the hyacinth blue of the sky. All sorts of Highland things
got in our way, counting deer; and I made up rules for creatures
which it would be very useful if they could be taught to obey.
'Bulls kindly requested not to charge motor-cars. No sitting down
or cud-chewing allowed in the middle of roads. Deer will please,
when darting across, start at least six yards ahead of motors.
Chickens will keep to their own side of the road when they have
chosen it three times. Rabbits not to run directly ahead of the car
for more than three miles at a stretch.'

As we lumbered along with Blunderbore, each heather-dyed hill that
rolled out of our way disclosed a new, or rather a very old,
castle. I should think there must be as many castles in this part
of the world as there are cottages. I know we saw more! except
perhaps those sweet little dwellings grouped together in the
charming villages of Ballater and Braemar. No wonder the King and
Queen love this part of the world. Basil thought everything here
quite foreign-looking: but there's always that French spirit in
Scotland, isn't there? I'm sure the coffee is so good just because
of that.

It was fun having luncheon at Braemar Castle, which has more
turrets than you can count without knowing it well. Each room
nearly has a turret, and some have two: and on the thick wooden
shutters names of soldiers quartered in the Castle after Prince
Charlie days are roughly carved. Of _course_ there's a dungeon, and
a secret way to the far-off village and river: and when you enter
you have to wind up and up a tower stairway with here and there a
little deep-set iron-barred window to give you light. I wish you
could see the Princess's Persian dog, Mirzan, of the oldest race of
dogs in the world: yellow-white as old ivory, tall and thin and
graceful as a blowing plume. He takes strange attitudes like dogs
in pictures by old masters; an