"I was there three weeks--long enough to idle about, though I could have stopped three years," said Drummond significantly.
"Your sister didn't come home with you?"
"No. They haven't any plans just yet. Aunt Betty talks about staying over Easter, and if they stop as long of course I'll go back."
"Nice, is it, or Monte Carlo?"
"Their headquarters are at Nice. My aunt has taken a villa. The old lady is going strong, and she is looking younger every day. What a warrior she is! She could give points to most of the girls one sees. She knows how to enjoy life at seventy-five. She had her birthday when I was there, and she had a dinner party of twelve. She has unearthed all sorts of old friends on the Riviera, and more are turning up every day. The latest is a Russian princess, whose mother was a Scotswoman somewhere away back in the dark ages. They're all having the time of their lives."
Neil was making talk, and they both knew it. It was not to rehearse these trivial items that he had come up that day to the Moor of Creagh.
Just then Diarmid made timely diversion by announcing that luncheon was served. His manner was irreproachable and dignified, and it could not have been excelled in the most distinguished establishment.
It was a great day for Diarmid, and he waited behind his young master's chair with a secret pride, for the Laird of Garrion was a guest worthy of honour.
The luncheon, though simple, was excellent, and they both enjoyed it to the full. A modest bottle of claret with the cheese just unloosed their tongues, and when Diarmid had left them Neil looked across the table very earnestly at Mackinnon's face.
"I don't suppose it will come as a very great surprise to you, Malcolm."