"Who or what is McTavish?" said Mark, in a tone which voiced the inexplicable but growing feeling of umbrage which was invading the minds of the assembly in regard to the unknown.
Douglas and Iris exchanged mirthful looks that seemed charged with meaning.
"Oh, McTavish! He's a friend of Douglas—a sort of friend. I suppose you would call him a friend, Douglas?"
"Well, hardly my friend, perhaps."
"Well, perhaps hardly!"
Iris fell into transports of laughter.
"A friend of a friend of yours!" she gasped.
At this sudden introduction of a brand-new element into their exchange of witticisms, Mr. Garrett's expression of rather satirical humour relaxed also into unrestrained laughter.
"We Scotch lads are accused of having no sense of fun," he ejaculated, in accents broken with mirth, "but, my certie, a real pawky bit of Scotch humour like that makes a perfect child of me!"
It was not often that Mr. Garrett relapsed into dialect, and his auditors were left to conclude that extreme wit and point must have characterised the reference which had left them so entirely cold.