It was still early in the afternoon when the gayety at the dinner-table began, in certain quarters, to show signs of wearing out.

The younger members of the party—­especially the ladies—­grew restless with the appearance of the dessert.  One after another they looked longingly at the smooth level of elastic turf in the middle of the glade.  One after another they beat time absently with their fingers to the waltz which the musicians happened to be playing at the moment.  Noticing these symptoms, Mrs. Delamayn set the example of rising; and her husband sent a message to the band.  In ten minutes more the first quadrille was in progress on the grass; the spectators were picturesquely grouped round, looking on; and the servants and waiters, no longer wanted, had retired out of sight, to a picnic of their own.

The last person to leave the deserted tables was the venerable Bishopriggs.  He alone, of the men in attendance, had contrived to combine a sufficient appearance of waiting on the company with a clandestine attention to his own personal need of refreshment.  Instead of hurrying away to the servants’ dinner with the rest, he made the round of the tables, apparently clearing away the crumbs—­actually, emptying the wine-glasses.  Immersed in this occupation, he was startled by a lady’s voice behind him, and, turning as quickly as he could, found himself face to face with Miss Lundie.

“I want some cold water,” said Blanche.  “Be so good as to get me some from the spring.”

She pointed to the bubbling rivulet at the farther end of the glade.

Bishopriggs looked unaffectedly shocked.

“Lord’s sake, miss,” he exclaimed “d’ye relly mean to offend yer stomach wi’ cauld water—­when there’s wine to be had for the asking!”

Blanche gave him a look.  Slowness of perception was not on the list of the failings of Bishopriggs.  He took up a tumbler, winked with his one available eye, and led the way to the rivulet.  There was nothing remarkable in the spectacle of a young lady who wanted a glass of spring-water, or of a waiter who was getting it for her.  Nobody was surprised; and (with the band playing) nobody could by any chance overhear what might be said at the spring-side.

“Do you remember me at the inn on the night of the storm?” asked Blanche.

Mr. Bishopriggs had his reasons (carefully inclosed in his pocketbook) for not being too ready to commit himself with Blanche at starting.

“I’m no’ saying I canna remember ye, miss.  Whar’s the man would mak’ sic an answer as that to a bonny young leddy like you?”

By way of assisting his memory Blanche took out her purse.  Bishopriggs became absorbed in the scenery.  He looked at the running water with the eye of a man who thoroughly distrusted it, viewed as a beverage.

“There ye go,” he said, addressing himself to the rivulet, “bubblin’ to yer ain annihilation in the loch yonder!  It’s little I know that’s gude aboot ye, in yer unconvairted state.  Ye’re a type o’ human life, they say.  I tak’ up my testimony against that. Ye’re a type o’ naething at all till ye’re heated wi’ fire, and sweetened wi’ sugar, and strengthened wi’ whusky; and then ye’re a type o’ toddy—­and human life (I grant it) has got something to say to ye in that capacity!”