MRS. S. My son makes songs too--he’s a poet, you know; not that I can understand his poetry; it’s all Greek to me, but it amuses him, and that’s everything. WIDOW. He must be very clever. My grandfather was a fine poet. MRS. S. Oh! really. Sandy will be delighted. He’ll be sure to buy a copy of your grandfather’s book. WIDOW. There is no book: his songs were never put in a book, but everybody sings them from Reay to Lochaber. MRS. S. How interesting! I’m sure you will be very friendly with my son. Perhaps you will make more of him than I can. His manner is irritating to me, and we’re not very good friends at present. WIDOW. I hope he’s no’ taking the drink. MRS S. Oh, no! but the poor boy has a temperament. WIDOW. A bad temper? MRS S. No, he’s not bad tempered, but very moody, inclined to be melancholy at times. And he’s so unconventional. He wants to return to Nature, he says, and in trying to be natural he has grown quite eccentric. He’s not like an ordinary city man at all. WIDOW. Gentlemen are often strange in their ways. They have so little to do that they cannot help taking queer notions. MRS S. (_smiling_). Perhaps. He’s tiresome at home but he’s absolutely unbearable on a holiday; he won’t even dress himself decently. He makes one climb dreadful hills to see the sun setting or the moon rising, and is continually drawing one’s attention to the light falling here and there. He’s in love with Nature, of course. WIDOW. With whom did you say? MRS S. He’s in love with the country, the fine scenery, and so on. WIDOW. And why for no?... God’s beautiful world. MRS S. I admire the country very much in the summer. It’s so restful and sets one up so. But I can’t understand how you exist during the winter season in this solitary place. WIDOW. It’s as beautiful in winter as in summer. Many times I will be looking through the window there to see the moon rising over the loch on a winter’s night when the ground is white and sparkling and all the world is at peace. It is like a dream of Heaven. MRS S. You have an eye for the beautiful, Mrs Mackay; but you don’t always get moonlight nights and clear days in the winter. (_Shrugging her shoulders._) WIDOW. Every day is different and every day has its own beauty, mem. MRS S. You will get on splendidly with my son. I’m so glad I have come here. You set my mind at ease. I can quite see you will have a strong influence over him. So I had better let you into my little secret, and perhaps you will help me. My son is in love, Mrs Mackay, terribly in love. At least he thinks he is. WIDOW. Indeet! MRS S. I shouldn’t mind that so much. But he is in love with a girl far below him in rank. It worries me very much. WIDOW. I see.