"You must not be disappointed. I hardly expected him; I could not hear of any one who had invited him. But it is quite likely he may turn up latter on—very likely, indeed, if he is anywhere within travelling distance of New York. George Bethune is not the one to forget the twenty-fifth of January; and of course he must know that many of his friends are assembled here." Then presently the Croupier turned to his guest and said in an undertone— "There’s a toast that’s not down in the list; and I’m going to ask ye to drink it; we’ll drink it between ourselves. Fill your glass, man—bless me, what’s the use of water!—see, here’s some hock—Sutherland’s famous for his hock—and now this is the toast. ’Here’s to Scotch lassies, wherever they may be!’" "Yes—’wherever they may be,’" Vincent repeated, absently. "Oh, don’t be downhearted!" his lion-maned friend said, with cheerful good humour. "If that self-willed old deevil has taken away the lassie, thinking to make some grand heiress of her, he’ll find it’s easier to talk about royal blood than to keep a comfortable house over her head; and some day he may be glad enough to bring her back and see her safely provided with a husband well-to-do and able to take care of her. Royal blood?—I’m not sure that I haven’t heard him maintain that the Bethunes were a more ancient race than the Stewarts. I shouldn’t wonder if he claimed to be descended from Macbeth, King of Scotland. Oh, he holds his head high, the old scoundrel that has ’stole bonny Glenlyon away.’ But you’ll be even with him yet; you’ll be even with him yet. Why, if he comes in to-night, and finds ye sitting here, he’ll be as astonished as Maclean of Duart was at Inverary, when he looked up from the banquet and saw his wife at the door."