“I suppose if he did, Duncan, you would dip him in Loch Roag.”
“Oh, there iss more than one,” said Duncan, with a grim twinkle in his eye—“there iss more than one that would hef a joke with him if he was to tell stories about Mr. Mackenzie.”
Lavender had been standing listening, unknown to both. He now went forward and bade them good-morning, and then, having had a look at the trout that Duncan had caught, pulled Ingram up from the bank, put his arm in his and walked away with him.
“Ingram,” he said, suddenly, with a laugh and a shrug, “you know I always come to you when I’m in a fix.”
“I suppose you do,” said the other, “and you are always welcome to whatever help I can give you. But sometimes it seems to me you rush into fixes with the sort of notion that I am responsible for getting you out.”
“I can assure you nothing of the kind is the case. I could not be so ungrateful. However, in the meantime—that is—the fact is, I asked Sheila last night if she should marry me.”
“The devil you did!”
Ingram dropped his companion’s arm and stood looking at him.
“Well, I knew you would be angry,” said the younger man in a tone of apology. “And I know I have been too precipitate, but I thought of the short time we should be remaining here, and of the difficulty of getting an explanation made at an another time; and it was really only to give her a hint as to my own feelings that I spoke. I could not bear to wait any longer.”
“Never mind about yourself,” said Ingram, somewhat curtly. “What did Sheila say?”