Lady Mackinnon nodded, well pleased.
"Come up in time for the Court. Marjorie and Sheila will never be satisfied till you see them in all their bravery. And we'll give a ball for you if you do come!"
"All right, my lady," said Malcolm with extreme satisfaction. "Fix the date and I'll come."
"I'm so sorry about Isla. I keep telling her not to take life so seriously," said Lady Mackinnon, her kind eyes wandering in the direction of her niece. "As I told her last night, it is you who ought to bear the burden of Achree. It's robbing her of her youth. She has changed greatly in the last year, don't you think?"
"Yes, and gone off decidedly, but there----"
He gave his shoulders a little shrug which expressed much that he did not say.
He dined at Belgrave Square that night and showed another side of him--the grave, quiet, attentive side, which pleased his relatives equally, if not even more.
"Why am I distrait?" he asked, when Marjorie twitted him with his quietude. "Well, the windbag was pricked last night. I couldn't sleep in my hard hotel bed for thinking of all the gas I had let out. It was pure exuberance of joy at again finding myself in such an atmosphere after hard service and a month on that beastly boat. Here's to our next merry meeting! Uncle Tom, Aunt Jean--the best of luck and nothing short of coronets for these fair heads."
Then they all laughed, and the last memory of the evening was as pleasant as possible. Next morning the whole family were at Euston to see the brother and sister off, and they duly departed in the full odour of family farewells.
"Well, that's over, thank goodness," said Malcolm as he dropped into his corner. A judicious word and a tip from Uncle Tom had secured them a compartment to themselves, in which they could talk of their private affairs. "Now, it'll be the tug-of-war--eh, Isla? Don't look so glum, old girl. Believe me, there isn't anything in life worth it."