upon him,
presented him to Mrs. Goodworth, a dark, bright, black-eyed, talkative
lady. He and Munro Touris nodded to each other. The laird of Black
Hill, the India merchant, and the lawyer now joined them, and all
strolled together along the very wide and straight graveled path. The
talk was chiefly upheld by Black Hill and the great trader, with the
lawyer putting in now and again a shrewd word, and the trader's wife
making aside to Mrs. Alison an embroidery of comment. There had now
been left trade in excelsis and host and guests were upon the state of
the country, an unpopular war, and fall of ministers. Came in phrases
compounded to meet Jacobite complications and dangers. The
Pretender--the Pretender and his son--French aid--French army that
might be sent to Scotland--position of defense--rumors everywhere you
go--disaffected and Stewart-mad--. Munro Touris had a biting word to
say upon the Highland chiefs. The lawyer talked of certain Lowland
lords and gentlemen. Mr. Touris vented a bitter gibe. He had a black
look in his small, sunken eyes. Alexander, reading him, knew that he
thought of Ian. In a moment the whole conversation had dragged that
way. Mrs. Goodworth spoke with vivacity.

"Lord, sir! I hope that your nephew, now that he wears the King's
coat, has left off talking as he did when he was a boy! He showed his
Highland strain with a warrant! You would have thought that he had
been _out_ himself thirty years ago!"

Her husband checked her. "You have not seen him since he was sixteen.
Boys like that have wild notions of romance and devotion. They change
when they're older."

The lawyer took the word. "Captain Rullock doubtless buried all that
years ago. His wearing the King's coat hauds for proof."

Munro Touris had been college-mate in Edinburgh. "He watered all that
gunpowder in him years ago, did he not, Glenfernie?"

"'To water gunpowder--to shut off danger.' That's a good figure of
yours, Munro!" said Alexander. Munro, who had been thought dull in the
old days, flushed with pleasure.

They had come to a kind of summer-house overrun with roses. Mr.
Archibald Touris stopped short and, with his back to this structure,
faced the company with him, brought thus to a halt. He looked at them
with a carefully composed countenance.

"I am sure, Munro, that Ian Rullock 'watered the gunpowder,' as you
cleverly say. Boys, ma'am"--to Mrs. Goodworth--"are, as your husband
remarks, romantic simpletons. No on