“But then I shan’t have any cards,” objected Babbie forlornly.
“Oh, I’ll bring you some,” Madeline promised her. “Wait for me——”
“In that Scotch plaid store over there,” supplied Babe, who never let an interesting shop escape her notice.
There were golf capes in the store, tweed ulsters—“Just the thing for a Scotch mist,” said Babbie, shivering in her natty silk rain-coat—beautiful little kilted suits for small boys to wear, and best of all, a proprietor resplendent in full Scotch regalia—kilted skirt, “golf” stockings, green coat, and the insignia of his clan dangling from a belt around his waist.
“Did you ever see anything so gorgeous,” murmured Babbie under her breath. “These plaid silk squares will make lovely bags, girls. I’m going to buy a Macdonald one, in memory of Flora. I do hope she will turn out to be the ghost of my castle.”
So Babbie timidly approached the majestic figure in plaids, who bowed affably and did up the silk square as neatly as any ordinary salesman, talking pleasantly meanwhile about the rain and the war-ship that had appeared that morning in the harbor.
The transaction was barely completed when Madeline came back, laden with post-cards and bursting with merriment.
“I took him in completely,” she said. “He told me all about you two and how you acted as if you owned Oban and his shop, and how the Americans are all millionaires and are spoiling the town, running about everywhere, asking senseless questions and not respecting any one’s privacy.”
“Wouldn’t he have enjoyed seeing us get over that chicken-wire fence?” said Babe viciously.
“And wouldn’t he be wild if he heard Babbie refer to Dunstaffnage as her castle?” added Betty.