"When we go to Edinburgh we'll tea on Princess Street," he remarked.
"It's there you'll fall for the Scotch cakes, Yellow-hair."
"I've already fallen for everything Scotch," she remarked demurely.
"Ah, wait! This Scotland is no strange land to good Americans. It's a bonnie, sweet, clean bit of earth made by God out of the same batch he used for our own world of the West. Oh, Yellow-hair, I mind the first day I ever saw Scotland. 'Twas across Princess Street—across acres of Madonna lilies in that lovely foreland behind which the Rock lifted skyward with Edinburgh Castle atop made out of grey silver slag! It was a brave sight, Yellow-hair. I never loved America more than at that moment when, in my heart, I married her to Scotland."
"Kay, you're a poet!" she exclaimed.
"We all are here, Yellow-hair. There's naught else in Scotland," he said laughing.
The man was absolutely transformed, utterly different. She had never imagined that a "cure" meant the revelation of this unsuspected personality—this alternation of pleasant gravity and boyish charm.
Something of what preoccupied her he perhaps suspected, for the colour came into his handsome lean features again and he picked up his rod, rising as she rose.
"Are there no instructions yet?" she inquired.
As he stood there threading the silk line through the guides he told her about the visit of No. 67.
"I fancy instructions will come before long," he remarked, casting a leaderless line out across the grass. After a moment he glanced rather gravely at her where she stood with hands linked behind her, watching the graceful loops which his line was making in the air.