Nature had gifted Miss Gallosh with a generous share of romantic sentiment. It was she who had egged on her father to rent this Highland castle for the summer, instead of chartering a yacht as he had done for the past few years; and ever since they had come here that sentiment had grown, till she was ready to don the white cockade and plot a new Jacobite uprising. Then, while her heart was in this inspired condition, a noble young chief had stepped in to complete the story. No wonder her dark eyes burned.
“What attachment you must feel for each stone of the Castle!” she continued in a rapt voice. “How your heart must beat to remember that your great-grandfather—wasn't his name Fergus?”
“Fergus: yes,” said the Baron, blindly but promptly.
“No, no; it was Ian, of course.”
“Ach, so! Ian he vas.”
“You were thinking of his father,” she smiled.
“Yes, his fazzer.”
She reflected sagely.
“I am afraid I get my facts mixed up some times. Ian—ah, Reginald came before him—not Fergus!”
“Reginald—oh yes, so he did!”