when we went down to the Thames yacht race, and afterwards we became great friends; and the dear little old lady already looks on me as if I were her son.  And do you know what her proposal is?  That she is to give me up her house and garden for a garden party, and I am to ask my friends; and it is to be a dance as well, for we shall ask the people to have supper at eight o’clock or so; and then we shall have a marquee—­and the garden all lighted up—­do you see?  It is one of the largest gardens on Campden Hill; and the colored lamps hung on the trees will make it look very fine; and we shall have a band to play music for the dancers—­”

“It will cost you L200 or L300 at least,” said Ogilvie, sharply.

“What then?  You give your friends a pleasant evening, and you show them that you are not ungrateful,” said Macleod.

Ogilvie began to ponder over this matter.  The stories he had heard of Macleod’s extravagant entertainments were true, then.  Suddenly he looked up and said,—­

“Is Miss White to be one of your guests?”

“I hope so,” said he.  “The theatre will be closed at the end of this week.”

“I suppose you have been a good many times to the theatre.”

“To the Piccadilly Theatre?”

“Yes.”

“I have been only once to the Piccadilly Theatre—­when you and I went together,” said Macleod, coldly; and they spoke no more of that matter.

By and by they thought they might as well smoke outside, and so they went down and out upon the high and walled terrace overlooking the broad valley of the Thames.  And now the moon had arisen in the south, and the winding river showed a pale gray among the black woods, and there was a silvery light on the stone parapet on which they leaned their arms.  The night was mild and soft and clear, there was an intense silence around, but they heard the faint sound of oars far away—­some boating party getting home through the dark shadows of the river-side trees.

“It is a beautiful life you have here in the south,” Macleod said, after a time, “though I can imagine that the women enjoy it more than the men.  It is natural for women to enjoy pretty colors, and flowers, and bright lights, and music; and I suppose it is the mild air that lets their eyes grow so big and clear.  But the men—­I should think they must get tired of doing nothing.  They are rather melancholy, and their hands are white.  I wonder they don’t begin to hate Hyde Park, and kid gloves, and tight boots.  Ogilvie,” said he, suddenly, straightening himself up, “what do you say to the 12th?  A few breathers over Ben-an-Sloich would put new lungs into you.  I don’t think you look quite so limp as most of the London men; but still you are not up to the mark.  And then an occasional run out to Coll or Tiree in that old tub of ours, with a brisk sou’-wester blowing across—­that would put some mettle into you.  Mind you, you won’t have any grand banquets at