His host began to change the tenor of the conversation by hoping that Sir Paget found his quarters comfortable last night, adding that he occupied 'the Johnson Room.' 'Why is it so called?' asked Sir Paget, jerking forward his bald head. 'Dr. Johnson slept a night in Dundargue when on his famous tour.' 'Of which Boswell makes no mention?' said Mr. Logan, inquiringly. 'Because my ancestor did not pay him sufficient deference; and, indeed, I fear we should scarcely ever have heard of the literary bear of Bolt Court and Fleet Street but for that Scotch toady of his. Though he alleged that the most valuable piece of timber in Scotland was his walking-stick, he might have seen some fine trees at the Birks of Aberfeldy. We must ride over there, Sir Paget, and I will show you the cradle of the Black Watch, my old regiment of immortal memory.' 'How?' 'It was first mustered there on the 25th of October, 1739.' 'Ah!' said Sir Paget, who was not so much interested in the matter as the speaker. Sir Paget was a childless widower, and had been left a noble fortune in many ways, including nearly the whole of Slough-cum-Sloggit, of which his father rose by his own merits to be mayor. He had entered the town a tattered lad, with only a sixpence in his pocket, and, in due time, the sixpence became the basis of colossal wealth. He had been made a baronet by the ministry of the day--no one knew precisely for what; but the wealth he left behind him gave his son an interest in the eyes of Lady Aberfeldie he was unlikely to attain in the soft hazel orbs of her daughter. Sir Paget generally stood with his chest puffed out, reminding one of a pouter-pigeon, his little, fat hands interlaced behind his back, and often as not under the tails of his coat, his round, good-humoured face and twinkling eyes turned up to the faces of those with whom he conversed, as most men, and women, too, had the advantage of him in stature. With a gold _pince-nez_ balanced on his very pug nose, he was what young ladies described as 'an absurd little man' whose tender speeches they laughed at--none more than Eveline--till matters took a serious turn, though he failed to feel the truth of the aphorism, 'Let no lover cherish sanguine hopes when the object of his choice has grown to look upon him in the light of the ridiculous.' Evan Cameron, we have said, sighed for Eveline; hopeless as his undeclared love had been, the presence of the wealthy English baronet, in conjunction with certain rumours he had heard, made it more hopeless than ever; and, unattractive though Sir Paget's years and figure, he felt intuitively that in him he had a dangerous rival.