“I am sure, Munro, that Ian Rullock ‘watered the gunpowder,’ as you cleverly say.  Boys, ma’am”—­to Mrs. Goodworth—­“are, as your husband remarks, romantic simpletons.  No one takes them and their views of life seriously.  Certainly not their political views!  When they come men they laugh themselves.  They are not boys then; they are men.  Which is, as it were, the preface to what I might as well tell you.  My nephew has resigned his captaincy and quitted the army.  Apparently he has come to feel that soldiering is not, after all, the life he prefers.  It may be that he will take to the law, or he may wander and then laird it when I am gone.  Or if he is very wise—­I meant to speak to you of this in private, Goodworth—­he might be furnished with shares and ventures in the East India.  He has great abilities.”

“Well, India’s the field!” said the London merchant, placidly.  “If a man has the mind and the will he may make and keep and flourish and taste power—­”

“Left the King’s forces!” cried Munro Touris.  “Why—!  And will he be coming to Black Hill, sir?”

“Yes.  Next week.  We have,” said Mr. Touris, and though he tried he could not keep the saturnine out of his voice—­“we have some things to talk over.”

As he spoke he moved from before the summer-house into a cross-path, and the others followed him and his Company magnate.  The Edinburgh lawyer and Glenfernie found themselves together.  The former lagged a step and held the younger man back with him; he dropped his voice

“I’ve not been three hours in the house.  I’ve had no talk with Mr. Touris.  What’s all this about?  I know that you and his nephew are as close as brothers—­not that brothers are always close!”

“He writes only that he is tired of martial life.  He has the soldier in him, but he has much besides.  That ‘much besides’ often steps in to change a man’s profession.”

“Well, I hope you’ll persuade him to see the old gunpowder very damp!  I remember that, as a very young man, he talked imprudently.  But he has been,” said the lawyer, “far and wide since those days.”

“Yes, far and wide.”

Mr. Wotherspoon with a long forefinger turned a crimson rose seen in profile full toward him.  “I met him—­once—­when I was in London a year ago.  I had not seen him for years.”  He let the rose swing back.  “He has a magnificence!  Do you know I study a good deal?  They say that so do you.  I have an inclination toward fifteenth-century Italian.  I should place him there.”  He spoke absently, still staring at the rose.  “A dash—­not an ill dash, of course—­of what you might call the Borgia ... good and evil tied into a sultry, thunderous splendor.”

Glenfernie bent a keen look upon him out of gray eyes.  “An enemy might describe him so, perhaps.  I can see that such a one might do so.”

“Ah, you’re his friend!”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Mr. Wotherspoon, straightening himself from the contemplation of the roses, “there’s no greater thing than to have a steadfast friend!”