Nothing had been said about their corresponding, but Lavender had written shortly after his arrival in London, and Sheila had answered for her father and herself.  It wanted but a very little amount of ingenuity to continue the interchange of letters thus begun; and when the well-known envelope arrived high holiday was immediately proclaimed by the recipient of it.  He did not show Ingram these letters, of course, but the contents of them were soon bit by bit revealed.  He was also permitted to see the envelope, as if Sheila’s handwriting had some magical charm about it.  Sometimes, indeed, Ingram had himself a letter from Sheila, and that was immediately shown to Lavender.  Was he pleased to find that these communications were excessively business-like—­describing how the fishing was going on, what was doing in the schools, and how John the Piper was conducting himself, with talk about the projected telegraphic cable, the shooting in Harris, the health of Bras, and other esoteric matters?

Lavender’s communications with the King of Borva were of a different nature.  Wonderful volumes on building, agriculture and what not, tobacco hailing from certain royal sources in the neighborhood of the Pyramids, and now and again a new sort of rifle or some fresh invention in fishing-tackle,—­these were the sort of things that found their way to Lewis.  And then in reply came haunches of venison, and kegs of rare whisky, and skins of wild animals, which, all very admirable in their way, were a trifle cumbersome in a couple of moderate rooms in King street, St. James’s.  But here Lavender hit upon a happy device.  He had long ago talked to his aunt of the mysterious potentate in the far North, who was the ruler of man, beast and fish, and who had an only daughter.  When these presents arrived, Mrs. Lavender was informed that they were meant for her, and was given to understand that they were the propitiatory gifts of a half-savage monarch who wished to seek her friendship.  In vain did Ingram warn Lavender of the possible danger of this foolish joke.  The young man laughed, and would come down to Sloane street with another story of his success as an envoy of the distant king.

And so the months went slowly by, and Lavender raved about Sheila, and dreamed about Sheila, and was always going to begin some splendid achievement for Sheila’s sake, but never just managed to begin.  After all, the future did not look very terrible, and the present was satisfactory enough.  Mrs. Lavender had no objection whatever to listening to his praises of Sheila, and had even gone the length of approving of the girl’s photograph when it was shown her.  But at the end of six months Lavender suddenly went down to Sloane street, found Ingram in his lodgings, and said, “Ingram, I start for Lewis to-morrow.”

“The more fool you!” was the complacent reply.

“I can’t bear this any longer:  I must go and see her.”

“You’ll have to bear worse if you go.  You don’t know what getting to Lewis is in the winter.  You’ll be killed with cold before you see the Minch.”