'I'm come about stopping a marriage,' said the marquis, at last arriving at business. 'My experience is at your service,' said Merton. 'Well,' went on the marquis, 'ours is an old name.' Merton remarked that, in the course of historical study, he had made himself acquainted with the achievements of the house. 'Auld warld tales! But I wish I could tell where the treasure is that wily auld Logan quarrelled over with the wizard Laird of Merchistoun. Logan would not implement the contract--half profits. But my wits are wool gathering.' He began to wander round the room, looking at the mezzotints. He stopped in front of one portrait, and said 'My Aunt!' Merton took this for an exclamation of astonishment, but later found that the lady (after Lawrence) really had been the great aunt of the marquis. Merton conceived that the wits of his visitor were worse than 'wool gathering,' that he had 'softening of the brain.' But circumstances presently indicated that Lord Restalrig was actually suffering from a much less common disorder--softening of the heart. He returned to his seat, and helped himself to snuff out of the enamelled gold box, on which Merton deemed it politic to keep a watchful eye. 'Man, I'm sweir' (reluctant) 'to come to the point,' said Lord Restalrig. Merton erroneously understood him to mean that he was under oath or vow to come to the point, and showed a face of attention. 'I'm not the man I was. The doctors don't understand my case--they take awful fees--but I see they think ill of it. And that sets a body thinking. Have you a taste of brandy in the house?' As the visitor's weather-beaten ruddiness had changed to a ghastly ashen hue, rather bordering on the azure, Merton set forth the liqueur case, and drew a bottle of soda water. 'No water,' said the peer; 'it's just ma twal' ours, an auld Scotch fashion,' and he took without winking an orthodox dram of brandy. Then he looked at the silver tops of the flasks. 'A good coat!' he said. 'Yours?' Merton nodded. 'Ye quarter the Douglas Heart. A good coat. Dod, I'll speak plain. The name, Mr. Merton, when ye come to the end o' the furrow, the name is all ye have left. We brought nothing into the world but the name, we take out nothing else. A sore dispensation. I'm not the man I was, not this two years. I must dispone, I know it well. Now the name, that I thought that I cared not an empty whistle for, is worn to a rag, but I cannot leave it in the mire. There's just one that bears it, one Logan by name, and true Logan by the mother's blood. The mother's mother, my cousin, was a bonny lass.' He paused; his enfeebled memory was wandering, no doubt, in scenes more vivid to him than those of yesterday.