While Macgregor grinned miserably, Christina, the stranger, smiled sweetly, if a little disconcertingly.

Then the party settled down again to its sober pleasures.  Macgregor possessed a fairly clear memory of the same company in a similar situation a dozen years ago, but the only change which now impressed itself upon him was that Mr. Pumpherston had become much greyer, stouter, shorter of breath, and was no longer funny.  And, as in the past, the prodigious snores of Mr. McOstrich, who still followed his trade of baker, sounded at intervals through the wall without causing the company the slightest concern, and were likewise no longer funny.

After supper, which consisted largely of lemonade and pastries, the hostess requested her guests, several being well-nigh torpid, to attend to a song by Mr. Pumpherston.  No one (excepting his wife) wanted to hear it, but the Pumpherston song had become traditional with the McOstrich entertainments.  One could not have the latter without the former.

‘He’s got a new sang,’ Mrs. Pumpherston intimated, with a stimulating glance round the company, ‘an’ he’s got a tunin’ fork, forbye, that saves him wrastlin’ for the richt key, as it were.  Tune up, Geordie!’

Mr. Pumpherston deliberately produced the fork, struck it on his knee, winced, muttered ‘dammit,’ and gazed upwards.  Not so many years ago Macgregor would have exploded; to-night he was occupied in trying to find Christina’s hand under the table.

‘Doh, me, soh, doh, soh, me, doh,’ hummed the vocalist.

Christina, who had been looking desperately serious, let out a small squeak and hurriedly blew her nose.  Macgregor regarded her in astonishment, and she withdrew the little finger she had permitted him to capture.

‘It’s a patriotic sang in honour,’ Mrs. Pumpherston started to explain——­

‘Ach, woman!’ cried her spouse, ‘ye’ve made me loss ma key.’  He re-struck the fork irritably, and proceeded to inform the company—­’It’s no exac’ly a new sang, but——­’

‘Ye’ll be lossin’ yer key again, Geordie.’

With a sulky grunt, Mr. Pumpherston once more struck his fork, but this time discreetly on the leg of his chair, and in his own good time made a feeble attack on ‘Rule, Britannia.’

‘This is fair rotten,’ Macgregor muttered at the third verse, resentful that his love should be apparently enjoying it.

‘Remember ye’re a sojer,’ she whispered back, ‘an’ thole.’  But she let him find her hand again.

The drear performance came to an end amid applause sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Pumpherston.

‘Excep’ when ye cracked on “arose,” ye managed fine,’ she said to her perspiring mate, and to the hostess, ‘What think ye o’ that for a patriotic sang, Mistress McOstrich?’

‘Oh, splendid—­splendid!’ replied Mrs. McOstrich with a nervous start.  For the last five minutes she had been lost in furtive contemplation of her two youthful guests, her withered countenance more melancholy even than usual.