“Ay; but ye would say, to be pure Scotch, 'Hamish,'” said Mr. Callender precisely. The girl, however, had not spoken; but Gray turned to her with something of his old gayety.
“And I suppose you would call me 'Robbie'?”
“Ah, no!”
“What then?”
“Robin.”
Her voice was low yet distinct, but she had thrown into the two syllables such infinite tenderness, that the consul was for an instant struck with an embarrassment akin to that he had felt in the cabin of the Skyscraper, and half expected the father to utter a shocked protest. And to save what he thought would be an appalling silence, he said with a quiet laugh:—
“That's the fellow who 'made the assembly shine' in the song, isn't it?”
“That was Robin Adair,” said Gray quietly; “unfortunately I would only be 'Robin Gray,' and that's quite another song.”
“AULD Robin Gray, sir, deestinctly 'auld' in the song,” interrupted Mr. Callender with stern precision; “and I'm thinking he was not so very unfortunate either.”
The discussion of Scotch diminutives halting here, the boat sped on silently to the yacht. But although Robert Gray, as host, recovered some of his usual lightheartedness, the consul failed to discover anything in his manner to indicate the lover, nor did Miss Ailsa after her single lapse of tender accent exhibit the least consciousness. It was true that their occasional frank allusions to previous conversations seemed to show that their opportunities had not been restricted, but nothing more. He began again to think he was mistaken.