“See his bonny blue eye—­” (I think he pronounced it “ee"), “see his mouth shut like a game spring.  See his strong arms and his height!  See him smash the boughs off trees when they get in his way! and then tell me a woman’s going to get dominion over him.  Go along, Mr. Johnson!”

But Johnson remained unconvinced and troubled; he had had several unpleasant proofs of woman’s infernal cunning in his own sphere of life, and Mrs. Hatfield, he knew, was as well endowed with Eve’s wit as any French maid.

“We’ll ha’ a bet about it if you like,” Armstrong remarked, as he got up to go, the clock striking three.  He knew the first batch of afternoon tourists would be clamoring at the gate.

Mr. Johnson looked at the riding-boots in his hand.

“He went straight off for his ride without tasting a bite of breakfast or seeing Mr. Fordyce, and he didn’t return to lunch, and just now I find every article of clothing strewn upon the floor—­when he came in and took another bath—­he did not even ring for me—­he must have galloped all the time; his temper would frighten a fighting cock.”

Meanwhile, Michael Arranstoun was tramping his park with giant strides, and suddenly came upon his friend and guest, Henry Fordyce, whose very presence in his house he had forgotten, so turbulent had his thoughts been ever since the early post came in.  Henry Fordyce was a leisurely creature, and had come out for a stroll on the exquisite June day upon his own account.

They exchanged a few remarks, and gradually got back to Michael’s sitting-room again, and rang for drinks.

Mr. Fordyce had, by this time, become quite aware that an active volcano was going on in his friend, but had waited for the first indication of the cause.  It came in the course of a conversation, after the footman had left the room and both men were reclining in big chairs with their iced whiskey and soda.

“It is a shame to stay indoors on such a day,” Henry said lazily, looking out upon the balcony and the glittering sunshine.

“I never saw anyone enjoy a holiday like you do, Henry,” Michael retorted, petulantly.  “I can’t enjoy anything lately.  ’Pon my soul, it is worth going into Parliament to get such an amount of pleasure out of a week’s freedom.”

But Henry did not agree that it was freedom, when even here at Arranstoun he had been pestered to patronize the local bazaar.

“The penalty of greatness!  I wonder when you will be prime minister.  Lord, what a grind!”

Mr. Fordyce stretched himself in his chair and lit a cigar.

“It may be a grind,” he said, meditatively, “but it is for some definite idea of good—­even if I am a slave; whereas you!—­you are tied and bound to a woman—­and such a woman!  You have not been able to call your soul your own since last October as it is—­and before you know where you are, you will be attending the husband’s funeral and your own wedding in the same week!”