"A glass of whiskey, at least?" Mary demanded.
"Oh, no, ma'am," said the soft-spoken Barbara, "there is no whiskey in the house."
"Then it is a shame there should be no whisky in a Highland house!" Mary exclaimed, indignantly. "Why, could you not have run over to your brother's cottage and got some?"
"The Gillie Ciotach was not giving me time, ma'am," answered Barbara, in her pleasant way. "Maybe he was thinking of something of that kind, and he went away quick after leaving the message."
"I'll make it up to the Gillie Ciotach—you will see if I don't!" she said to Käthchen, as they passed through the hall and went upstairs. And all that evening she appeared to be greatly pleased by this little incident; and spoke of it again and again: why, to her it seemed to presage the pacification of this lawless land—she was going to meet with some return at last.
Moreover, when the photographer at length made his appearance and set to work, it must have appeared to the people about that Donald Ross of Heimra had become the chosen ally and companion of the young Baintighearna; while to Donald Ross himself it seemed as if Mary were bent on representing him—in these views, at least—as the owner of the whole place. And she was wilful and imperative about it, too; though Käthchen, standing by as a spectator, perceived that she had to deal with a nature which, however quiet, was a good deal firmer than her own. For example, one of the first views was the front of Lochgarra House. The artist, having a soul above bare stone and lime, suggested that there should be some figures standing at the open hall-door, on the terrace above the steps.
"Oh, yes, certainly," said Mary at once. "You go, Mr. Ross, and stand there—will you be so kind?"
"I?" said he, in amazement—for it was clear she meant herself and Kate Glendenning to remain out of the picture—"What should I do there? That is your place, surely—in front of your own house."
"Oh, what does Mrs. Armour want with me!" she protested. "It is you she wants, naturally. Of course she associates Lochgarra House with you, not with me at all. Who am I? A stranger—an interloper. What does Mrs. Armour care about me? No, really, I must insist on your going and standing on the terrace."
"But indeed I cannot: what right have I to be there?" said he, with the faintest touch of colour coming to the keen, pale, dark face.