“Ye'll be goin' to Glenbogie House, I'm thinkin'?” he said moodily. The consul said that he was. “I kenned it. Ye'll no be gettin' any machine to tak' ye there. They'll be sending a carriage for ye--if ye're EXPECTED.” He glanced half doubtfully at the consul as if he was not quite so sure of it. But the consul believed he WAS expected, and felt relieved at the certain prospect of a conveyance. The porter meanwhile surveyed him moodily. “Ye'll be seein' Mistress MacSpadden there!” The consul was surprised into a little over-consciousness. Mrs. MacSpadden was a vivacious acquaintance at St. Kentigern, whom he certainly--and not without some satisfaction--expected to meet at Glenbogie House. He raised his eyes inquiringly to the porter's. “Ye'll no be rememberin' me. I had a machine in St. Kentigern and drove ye to MacSpadden's ferry often. Far, far too often! She's a strange flagrantitious creature; her husband's but a puir fule, I'm thinkin', and ye did yersel' nae guid gaunin' there.” It was a besetting weakness of the consul's that his sense of the ludicrous was too often reached before his more serious perceptions. The absurd combination of the bleak, inhospitable desolation before him, and the sepulchral complacency of his self-elected monitor, quite upset his gravity. “Ay, ye'll be laughin' THE NOO,” returned the porter with gloomy significance. The consul wiped his eyes. “Still,” he said demurely, “I trust you won't object to my giving you sixpence to carry my box to the carriage when it comes, and let the morality of this transaction devolve entirely upon me. Unless,” he continued, even more gravely, as a spick and span brougham, drawn by two thoroughbreds, dashed out of the mist up to the platform, “unless you prefer to state the case to those two gentlemen”--pointing to the smart coachman and footman on the box--“and take THEIR opinion as to the propriety of my proceeding any further. It seems to me that their consciences ought to be consulted as well as yours. I'm only a stranger here, and am willing to do anything to conform to the local custom.” “It's a saxpence ye'll be payin' anyway,” said the porter, grimly shouldering the trunk, “but I'll be no takin' any other mon's opinion on matters of my am dooty and conscience.” “Ah,” said the consul gravely, “then you'll perhaps be allowing ME the same privilege.” The porter's face relaxed, and a gleam of approval--purely intellectual, however,--came into his eyes. “Ye were always a smooth deevel wi' your tongue, Mr. Consul,” he said, shouldering the box and walking off to the carriage.