“I don’t rent fishing privileges,” he said amiably.

“That’s all right.  Name your price.  No millionaire guy I ever heard of ever had enough money,” returned the flashy man jocosely.

McKay, amused, shook his head.  “Sorry,” he said, “but I couldn’t permit you to fish.”

“Aw, come on, old scout!  We heard you was American same as us.  That’s my sister down there and her feller.  My name’s Jim Macniff—­some Scotch somewhere.  That there feller is Harry Skelton.  Horses is our business—­Spitalfields Mews—­here’s my card—­” pulling it out—­“I’ll come up on the bridge—­”

“Never mind.  What are you in Scotland for anyway?” inquired McKay.

“The Angus Dhu stables at Inverness—­auction next Wednesday.  Horses is our line, so we made it a holiday—­”

“A holiday in the Banff country?”

“Sure, I ain’t never seen it before.  Is that your house?”

McKay nodded and turned away, weary of the man and his vulgarity.  “Very well, picnic and fish if you like,” he said; and fell into step beside Miss Erith.

They entered the house through the door in the garden.  Later, when Miss Erith came back from her toilet, but still wearing her outing skirt, McKay turned from the long window where he had been standing and watching the picnickers across Isla Bridge.  The flashy man had a banjo now and was strumming it and leering at the girl.

“What people to encounter in this corner of Paradise,” she said laughingly.  And, as he did not smile:  “You don’t suppose there’s anything queer about them, do you, Kay?” At that he smiled:  “Oh, no, nothing of that sort, Yellow-hair.  Only—­it’s rather odd.  But bagmen and their kind do come into the northland—­why, Heaven knows—­but one sees them playing about.”

“Of course those people are merely very ordinary Americans—­nothing worse,” she said, seating herself at the table.

“What could be worse?” he returned lightly.

“Boche.”

They were seated sideways to the window and opposite each other, commanding a clear view of Isla Water and the shore where the picnickers sprawled apparently enjoying the semi-comatose pleasure of repletion.

“That other man—­the thin one—­has not exactly a prepossessing countenance,” she remarked.

“They can’t travel without papers,” he said.

For a little while luncheon progressed in silence.  Presently Miss Erith reverted to the picnickers:  “The young woman has a foreign face.  Have you noticed?”

“She’s rather dark.  Rather handsome, too.  And she appears rather nice.”

“Women of that class always appear superior to men of the same class,” observed Miss Erith.  “I suppose really they are not superior to the male of the species.”

“I’ve always thought they were,” he said.

“Men might think so.”

He smiled:  “Quite right, Yellow-hair; woman only is competent to size up woman.  The trouble is that no man really believes this.”