Mr. Touris addressed himself with his careful smile to Alexander.  “Good day, Glenfernie!  This, Mr. Goodworth, is a good neighbor of mine, Mr. Jardine of Glenfernie.  Alexander, Mr. Goodworth is art and part of the East India.  You have met Mr. Wotherspoon before, I think?  There are Alison and Mrs. Goodworth and Munro Touris by the roses.”

Glenfernie went over to the roses.  Mrs. Alison, smiling upon him, presented him to Mrs. Goodworth, a dark, bright, black-eyed, talkative lady.  He and Munro Touris nodded to each other.  The laird of Black Hill, the India merchant, and the lawyer now joined them, and all strolled together along the very wide and straight graveled path.  The talk was chiefly upheld by Black Hill and the great trader, with the lawyer putting in now and again a shrewd word, and the trader’s wife making aside to Mrs. Alison an embroidery of comment.  There had now been left trade in excelsis and host and guests were upon the state of the country, an unpopular war, and fall of ministers.  Came in phrases compounded to meet Jacobite complications and dangers.  The Pretender—­the Pretender and his son—­French aid—­French army that might be sent to Scotland—­position of defense—­rumors everywhere you go—­disaffected and Stewart-mad—.  Munro Touris had a biting word to say upon the Highland chiefs.  The lawyer talked of certain Lowland lords and gentlemen.  Mr. Touris vented a bitter gibe.  He had a black look in his small, sunken eyes.  Alexander, reading him, knew that he thought of Ian.  In a moment the whole conversation had dragged that way.  Mrs. Goodworth spoke with vivacity.

“Lord, sir!  I hope that your nephew, now that he wears the King’s coat, has left off talking as he did when he was a boy!  He showed his Highland strain with a warrant!  You would have thought that he had been out himself thirty years ago!”

Her husband checked her.  “You have not seen him since he was sixteen.  Boys like that have wild notions of romance and devotion.  They change when they’re older.”

The lawyer took the word.  “Captain Rullock doubtless buried all that years ago.  His wearing the King’s coat hauds for proof.”

Munro Touris had been college-mate in Edinburgh.  “He watered all that gunpowder in him years ago, did he not, Glenfernie?”

“‘To water gunpowder—­to shut off danger.’  That’s a good figure of yours, Munro!” said Alexander.  Munro, who had been thought dull in the old days, flushed with pleasure.

They had come to a kind of summer-house overrun with roses.  Mr. Archibald Touris stopped short and, with his back to this structure, faced the company with him, brought thus to a halt.  He looked at them with a carefully composed countenance.