There was a goodly company—chiefly neighbours from such places as Glamis, Kinnaird, Kinnordy, Kinblethmont, Balnaboth. Many Ogilvys and Stanleys, and an army of tenants and retainers. The host looked every inch a scion of the old Mormaers of Scotland, and the stately châtelaine, at whose hands the venerable home had received such loving care, proudly did the honours, a queen among her guests. The sun shone out gaily after the storm, the wild skirl of many bagpipes screamed in the courtyard, pibroch followed by pibroch, as we made ready to drive through the bright, crisp air to Airlie Castle. That was indeed a romantic setting for a honeymoon, and never looked more beautiful than during those sharp winter days. The river was almost entirely frozen over, and on one great ice-block was a dead salmon, half eaten by the otter which had dragged it there; the trees were heavily laden, snow-icicles sparkling with all the colours of the rainbow; the red sandstone walls of the bonnie House of Airlie glowing in the sun—winter in all its glory. 1875 The honeymoon was cut very short, for at the end of five days I was summoned south. There was trouble at the Office of Works, and I must perforce get back into harness with all speed. And so we bade good-bye to Airlie Castle and the year 1874. It had been for me a bright and a joyous year, in which there had not been an hour that was not full of hope, and of happiness which is the child of hope. For a few months, while our house in Chelsea was getting ready for us, we camped in my old quarters in Victoria Street. We had a bright welcome there, for my dear old friend, Sir Joseph Hooker, had made the rooms gay with flowers, and the dinginess of London was left outside. On the 3rd of July we migrated into our new home at Chelsea, a delightful house looking over the river, carrying up and down with the tide the brown-sailed barges and all its picturesque movement, with the famous green copper spire of Battersea Church across the water, and the delightful old wooden bridge, now vanished, which has been immortalized in Whistler’s etchings and nocturnes and harmonies. At the time when Chelsea was “a village of palaces” Lindsey House had seen better days. It was built on part of the site occupied by Sir Thomas More’s country place, a site full of memories of the great Chancellor and Erasmus and Anne Roper. Here Holbein, introduced by Erasmus, lived until he had painted the portraits of his host and hostess and the whole family, down to Patenson the jester and the little dog.