Nothing worth mentioning was said in the conversation that followed. Alec hoped that before he took his leave he would receive a general invitation to the house; but nothing of the kind was forthcoming. That, however, mattered little. Laura was here, close to him; they would be sure to meet; and of course he was at liberty to go to Glendhu occasionally. He went home to his lodgings wondering at his good fortune. The rosy hue had returned to the earth, and Arrochar was the most delightful spot on the habitable globe. The one event of the day in the village was the arrival of the steamer and the departure of the coach which carried passengers to Tarbert on Loch Lomond. It was a favourite amusement of the inhabitants to lounge about the landing-place on these occasions, ostensibly coming for their letters and newspapers, but really pleased to see new faces and make comments about the appearance of the tourists. Laura Mowbray generally found it necessary to go to the post-office about the time of the steamer’s arrival; and Alec was not long in turning the custom to his own advantage. As he was walking back with her to Glendhu one day, he noticed that she was rather abstracted. ‘I wonder what you are thinking of, Miss Mowbray,’ he said. ‘You have not answered me once since we left the pier.’ ‘Haven’t I? I’m sure I beg your pardon.’ ‘See that patch of sunlight on the hill across the loch!’ cried Alec enthusiastically. ‘See how it brings out the rich yellow colour of the moss, while all the rest of the hill is in shadow.’ ‘You ought to have been a painter,’ said his companion. ‘Don’t you think Arrochar is a perfectly _lovely_ place?’ returned Alec. ‘Yes; very pretty. But it is very dull.’ ‘Dull?’ ‘Yes; there is no life--no gaiety. It is said that the English take their pleasures sadly; but they are gaiety itself compared with you Scotch. You shut yourselves up in your own houses and don’t mix with your neighbours at all. At least you have no amusements in which anyone can share. The boating, tennis, bathing, everything is done _en famille_. There is no fun, no mixing with the rest of the world. In an English watering-place people stay at hotels, or in lodgings; and if they tire of one place they can go to another. Then they have parties of all kinds, and dances at the hotels. Here everyone takes a house for two months, and moves down with servants, plate, linen, groceries, perhaps even the family piano. I only wonder they don’t bring the bedsteads. Having got to their houses, they stay there, and perhaps never see a strange face till it is time to go back to town. It’s a frightfully narrowing system, not to speak of the dulness of it.’ ‘I never thought of it before,’ said Alec. ‘I don’t care to know more people myself; I am never at my ease with people till I know them pretty well. But I am sorry if you find it dull.’