"Just because," he said, "you've never heard of a thing, away off here in your wild Highlands, is a mighty poor proof that it doesn't exist. I suppose you don't believe in predestination. I've always known," he said grandly, "that I should marry my cousin—even against her will and better judgment. You don't more than half believe me, do you?"
"Well, not more than half," Miss MacNish smiled.
"It's the truth," he said; "I will bet you ten pounds it's the truth."
Miss MacNish looked at him indignantly, and in the midst of the look she sighed. "I don't bet," said she.
McTavish lowered his glance until it rested upon his own highly polished brown boots.
"Why are you looking at your boots?" asked Miss MacNish.
"Because," he said simply, "considering that I am in love with my cousin, I don't think I ought to look at you any more. I'm afraid I got the habit by looking at your sister; but then, as she has a husband, it couldn't matter so much."
Miss MacNish, I'm afraid, mantled with pleasure. "My sister said something in her letter about your wishing to see the house of your ancestors. Miss McTavish is out now—would you like to look about a little?"
"Dearly," said McTavish.