(I didn't let my eyes twinkle, or my face do that weird thing, "break into a smile"; but Jack Morrison told me that Miss MacDonald had "set her cap at the great Somerled," and torn it off and stamped on it in rage because—this is Jack's slang—Sir S. "wasn't taking any.")
—"Having failed to bring off a match or two, has settled down into old-maidhood. She's an enthusiastic suffragette, and hates living out of London. The Mac of D. considers his club his castle, or a good deal better; and as he's the last of the line—not a male heir, no matter how distant—he can do as he likes with his ancestral stronghold. You know, I suppose, your father was born at Dunelin Castle?'
"Yes," I said. "I wish I'd been born there, instead of at Hillard House."
"So do I wish it. If you had been, I should have no hesitation in—er—in building the gallery round the library wall."
"You think you really will decide to buy the castle?" I asked breathlessly.
"Sometimes I think so. At other times I think, Qui bono? I say to myself that I shall never have a home, or an incentive for settling down. But come along and look at Sir Walter's treasures before any one else appears."
"Where's Mrs. West?" I asked involuntarily.
"She's annexed your bodyguard for the moment—do you mind?—appealed to their innate love of horrors by showing them the picture of Queen Mary's head, painted an hour after her death by a brother of Margaret Cawood, her attendant. Suddenly I felt that, if Basil could spare you to me for ten minutes, I should like to be the one to show you a few things—the things I loved best when I came from Edinburgh to Abbotsford with a bit of the first money I ever earned by my brush."
I turned on him, opening my eyes wide. "Basil spare me!" I echoed scornfully. "I'm not his princess, even if you don't want me for yours."
"I do want you. But——"