They wandered down by the loch's side. Passing a boat-renting establishment, Paula suddenly exclaimed,
“My Land of Liberty, look there, Barry!”
“What?”
“A canoe,” she cried, running toward it. “A Canadian canoe!”
“A genuine Peterboro,” he cried, following her. “Where did you get this?” he inquired, turning to the boatman.
“My boy brought it with him from Canada, sir. He is an engineer. I have his whole outfit in the house—tent, camp things and all. He is at the war himself.”
“Oh, Barry, look at the dear thing. What does it make you think of?” She glanced at Barry's face and added quickly, “Oh, I know. Forgive me. I'm a fool!”
“Come along, Phyllis,” said Barry, drawing her away with him. “I want to talk to you.”
“We shall take lunch in half an hour, Barry,” called Mr. Howland after him. “We're due at Pitlochry, you know, for dinner.”
“All right, sir,” said Barry. “We'll be on hand.”