“Bessie!  Old Bessie—­By Jove, what an idea!—­the very thing.  She’d do it for me like a shot, dear old body!”

Binko gurgled and slobbered in sympathy.

“She would be kind to you, too, Binko.  She would not say she found your hairs on every chair, and that you dribbled on her dress!  She would not tell your master that he left his cigarette-ash about, and she hated the smell of smoke!  She would not want this room for her boudoir, she——­”

Then he stopped his flow of words, suddenly catching sight of the whimsical, sardonic smile upon his friend’s face.

“Oh, Lord!” he mumbled, contritely.  “I had forgotten you were here, Henry.  I am so jolly upset.”

“This heartlessness about poor Maurice has finished you, eh?” Mr. Fordyce suggested.  He felt he might be gaining his end.

Michael covered his face with his hands.

“It seems so ghastly to think of marriage with the poor chap not yet dead—­I am fairly knocked over—­it really is the last straw—­but she will cry and make a scene—­and she has certainly arguments—­and it will make one feel such a cad to leave her.”

“She wrote that—­did she?—­wrote of marriage and her husband’s last attack of hemorrhage in the same paragraph, I suppose.  Michael, it is revolting!  My dear boy, you must break away from her—­and then do try to occupy yourself with more important things than women.  Believe me, they are all very well in their way and in their proper place—­to be treated with the greatest courtesy and respect as wives and mothers—­even loved, if you will, for a recreation—­but as vital factors in a man’s real life!  My dear fellow, the idea is ridiculous—­that life should be for his country and the development of his own soul——­”

Michael Arranstoun laughed.

“Jolly old Mohammedan!  You think women have none, I suppose!”

Henry Fordyce frowned, because it was rather true—­but he denied the charge.

“Nothing of the sort.  Merely, I see things at their proper balance and you cannot.”

Michael leaned back in his chair; he was quieter for a moment.

“I only see what I want to see, Henry—­and I am a savage—­I cannot help it—­we have always been so.  When I fancy a woman, I must obtain her—­when I want a horse, I must have it.  It is always must—­and we have not done so badly.  We still possess our shoulders and chins and strength after eleven hundred years of it!” and he stretched out a splendid arm, with a force which could have felled an ox.

An undoubtedly fine specimen of British manhood he looked, sitting there in the June sunlight, which came in a shaft from the south mullioned window in the corner beyond the great fireplace, the space between occupied by a large picture of uncertain date, depicting the landing of Mary, Queen of Scots, in her northern kingdom.

His eyes roamed to this.

“One of my ancestors was among that party,” he said, pointing to a figure.  “He had just killed a Moreton and stolen his wife, that is why he looks so perky—­the fellow in the blue doublet.”