"First," said Traquair cautiously, "I'll bide a bit on the thought." "I will leave the time to your meeserable conscience," said Miss McTavish generously. "Meanwhile, my dear man, while the semblance of prosperity abides over my head in the shape of a roof, there's a matter o' ten pound--" Mr. Traquair rose briskly to his feet. "Ten pound!" he exclaimed. "Only ten pound," she wheedled. "My dear," he said, "I don't see where you're to raise another matter o' saxpence this month." "But I've promised the ten pound on my honor," she said. "Would you have me break my word to a servant?" "Well--well," temporized Mr. Traquair, "I'll have another look at the books. Mind, I'm not saying it can be done--unless you'll sell a bit timber here and yont--" "Dear man," she said, "full well ye know it's not mine to sell. Then you're to let me have the ten pound?" "If I were to employ a wheedler," said Mr. Traquair, "I'd have no choice 'twixt you and Satan. Mind, I make no promises. Ten pound is a prodeegious sum o' money, when ye hay'na got it." "Not later than to-morrow, then," said Miss McTavish, as though to cap a promise that had been made to her. "I'm obliged to you, Traquair, deeply obliged." IV But it was not the matter of the ten pounds that worried Traquair as he climbed into his pony cart and drove slowly through the castle policies to the gate. Indeed, the lofty gates had not been closed behind him before he had forgotten all about them. That The McTavish was not The McTavish alone occupied his attention. And when he perceived the cause of the trouble, strolling beside the lofty ring fence of stone that shielded the castle policies from impertinent curiosity, it was in anything but his usual cheerful voice that he hailed him. "Will you take a lift, Mr. McTavish?" he invited dismally. "Oh, no," said The McTavish, "I won't trouble you, thanks." Traquair's meeserable conscience got the better of him all at once. And with that his cheerfulness returned. "Get in," he said. "You cannot help troubling me, Mr. McTavish. I've a word for you, sir." McTavish, wondering, climbed into the car. "Fergus," said Traquair to the small boy who acted as groom, messenger, and shoe polisher to the local branch of the Bank of Scotland, "ye'll walk." When the two were thus isolated from prying ears, Mr. Traquair cleared his throat and spoke. "Is there anything, Mr. McTavish," he said, "in this world that a rich man like you may want?" "Oh, yes," said McTavish, "some things." "More wealth?" McTavish shook his head. "Houses--lands?" Traquair looked up shrewdly from the corner of his eye, but McTavish shook his head again. "Power, then, Mr. McTavish?" "No--not power." "Glory?" "No," said McTavish; "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid not." "Then, sir," said Traquair, "it's a woman." "No," said McTavish, and he blushed handsomely. "It's _the_ woman." "I withdraw my insinuation," said Traquair gravely. "I thank you," said Mr. McTavish.