He dined at Belgrave Square that night and showed another side of him--the grave, quiet, attentive side, which pleased his relatives equally, if not even more. "Why am I distrait?" he asked, when Marjorie twitted him with his quietude. "Well, the windbag was pricked last night. I couldn’t sleep in my hard hotel bed for thinking of all the gas I had let out. It was pure exuberance of joy at again finding myself in such an atmosphere after hard service and a month on that beastly boat. Here’s to our next merry meeting! Uncle Tom, Aunt Jean--the best of luck and nothing short of coronets for these fair heads." Then they all laughed, and the last memory of the evening was as pleasant as possible. Next morning the whole family were at Euston to see the brother and sister off, and they duly departed in the full odour of family farewells. "Well, that’s over, thank goodness," said Malcolm as he dropped into his corner. A judicious word and a tip from Uncle Tom had secured them a compartment to themselves, in which they could talk of their private affairs. "Now, it’ll be the tug-of-war--eh, Isla? Don’t look so glum, old girl. Believe me, there isn’t anything in life worth it." "I don’t want to be glum, but I have felt rather mean these two days, Malcolm. Perhaps we ought to have told Uncle Tom and Aunt Jean. Didn’t you feel that we were there under false pretences? They would have felt differently, I mean, if they had known that you had sent in your papers." He shrugged his shoulders, tossed his cap to the rack, and took out his cigarette case. "Do you mind if I take a whiff? I suppose it would have made a difference, but why intrude unpleasant topics until one can’t avoid them? That’s a pretty good and safe philosophy of life, Isla--to lie low and keep dark about what can’t be helped." "They will know before you go back to London again, that is, if you were serious about going to them in May." "Anything may happen between now and the month of May. The thing is to grease the ropes. Now, what earthly good would it have done to have told them the real state of affairs? It would only have depressed them and made us all most beastly uncomfortable. By the by, as we are on the subject, may I inquire how many people in the Glen you have told?" "Only Neil Drummond." "That young, unlicked cub! And why, in Heaven’s name, should you have told him? Are you engaged to him--or what? There must be some reason why he should be taken into the family’s most private counsels." "I had to tell somebody, and it was in a manner forced on me," she said rather coldly. "But you need not be afraid of Neil telling anyone. He feels it too much." "Very kind of him, I’m sure. Well now, tell me something about this American chap. Is he a bounder, like the rest of them?" "No, he’s a gentleman, Malcolm." "It’s an elastic term. Do you mean that he wears good clothes and that sort of thing?" "No. I don’t mean that."