"Certainly. Shall we walk to Strathnaver, Lady Yellow-hair?"
"If it please my lord."
"Now?"
"In the cool of the afternoon. Don't you want to be lazy with me in your quaint old garden for an hour or two?"
"I'll send out two steamer-chairs, Yellow-hair."
When they lay there in the shadow of a lawn umbrella, chair beside chair, the view across Isla Water was unpolluted by the picnickers, their hamper, and their car.
"Stole away, the beggars," drawled McKay lighting a cigarette.
"Where the devil they got a permit for petrol is beyond me."
The girl lay with deep golden eyes dreaming under her long dark lashes. Sunlight crinkled Isla Water; a merle came and sang to her in a pear-tree until, in its bubbling melody, she seemed to hear the liquid laughter of Isla rippling to the sea.
"Kay?"
"Yes, Yellow-hair." Their voices were vague and dreamy.