"Far from it," said Robin; "as you will admit when I say that my three friends are a policeman, a surgeon, and a minister." "How quaint of you!" said Dilly. But Robin did not seem to think it quaint. He told us about the policeman first--a Highlander. Robin had made his acquaintance in Edinburgh, apparently about the same time that he made ours, and had renewed it some years later outside the House of Commons, when a rapturous mutual recognition had taken place. The policeman's name was Hector MacPherson. "And the surgeon?" inquired Kitty, with a certain friendly assumption of interest which announces (to me) that she is getting a little bored. "He is just my uncle. I go and see him, whi--now and then. He is a busy man." "And the--er--minister?" "He is Dr Strang. He has the Presbyterian Church in Howard Street. I have sat under him every Sabbath since I came to London." "Wh--what for?" asked Kitty involuntarily, and in a rather awestruck voice. Her acquaintance with the ritual of the Church of Scotland was hazy, and she was evidently determined to-day to be surprised at nothing; but evidently this mysterious reference could not be allowed to pass without some explanation. The Twins convulsively gripped each other's hands under the table. (They are of course perfectly bred girls--indeed, their self-possession at trying moments has often surprised me--but, like all the young of the human species, there are times when their feelings become too much for them. Then, if the occasion is too formal for unrestrained shrieks, they silently interdigitate.) "That is a Scottish expression," said Robin, smiling upon us. "You must pardon me, Mrs Inglethwaite. I should perhaps have said that I was an adherent of Dr Strang's church--or rather," he added with a curious little touch of pride, "I am a communicant now. I was just an adherent at first." We assented to this, politely but dizzily. Scratch a Scot and you will find a theologian. Robin was fairly started now; and he proceeded to enlarge upon various points of interest in the parallel histories (given in full) of some three or four Scottish denominations, interwoven with extracts from his own family archives. His grand-uncle, it appeared, had been a minister himself, and had performed the feat--to which I have occasionally heard other perfervid Scots refer, and never without a kindling eye--known as "coming out in the Forty-three." "That," added Robin in parenthesis, "is why my second name is Chalmers--after the great Doctor. You will have heard of him?" (Polite but insincere chorus of pleased recognition.)