Andrew was glancing through an evening paper, and his aunt conscientiously studying that morning's _Scotsman_. Suddenly she exclaimed: "The Cromarty Highlanders have come to Glasgow!" Andrew stared at her. "Not the second battalion?" "Yes, Frank's regiment." "But they weren't to leave India for three years yet." Mrs. Andrew looked over her shoulder. "Oh, I saw they'd been ordered home some time ago." "You didn't mention it to me," said Andrew. She looked a little surprised, for she knew that Frank's was not a name mentioned in that house. "I didn't think you'd be interested." "I am not in the least," replied her husband. His eye reproved her coldly. She exchanged with his aunt one of those sympathetic glances that pass between indulgent but comprehending women. "He is a noble creature, but at moments a little inconsistent," they mutually confided. And then she wrote the names of Lord and Lady Kilconquar on their card. And that is how Jean might have been spending her evenings too, had she had proper principles. CHAPTER V The gentlemen entered the drawing-room, bringing a faint aroma of Andrew's excellent cigars. The ladies' conversation died away to the whispered ends of one or two stories too interesting to be left unfinished, and then with a deeper note and on manlier topics the flood of talk poured on again. It had been a most successful dinner--soup excellent, fish first-rate, everything good. Of course the wines were unexceptionable, while the company recognized itself as a homogeneous specimen of all that was best in the city--with the Ramornies of Pettigrew thrown in. Here they were now, the whole twenty-two of them from old Lord Kilconquar, most eminent of judges, down to that rising young Hector Donaldson, bearing implicit testimony to the status of Andrew Walkingshaw. He stood there beside Lady Kilconquar's chair gravely discoursing on a well-chosen topic of local interest and bending solemnly at intervals to hear her comments. You could see at once from the attitude of all who addressed him that he was recognized as far from the least distinguished member of the company. He had touched the very apex of his career. "Hush, Andrew," murmured his wife. "Mrs. Rivington is going to sing." Hector opened the piano, and Mrs. Rivington sat down and touched the keyboard. Then she looked around for silence, and it fell completely. All the eye-witnesses present are agreed that it was in the moment of this pause that the drawing-room door opened, and they heard the butler announce the name of Mr. Walkingshaw. The company turned with one accord and beheld a tall youth, attired in tweeds, march confidently into the room. In fact, he seemed so much at home, that, though naturally surprised (especially at his unorthodox costume), they never dreamt of any but the most obvious and simple explanation. They scrutinized him as he advanced, merely wondering what cousin--or could it be brother?--he was.