ecause of my being just out of the
glass retort. But now he abandoned me to another; and seeing him
entirely absorbed in Mrs. West kept me from dwelling on Burns as much as
I ought. If you are to concentrate your mind on historical characters or
poets, you must clear your brain out to make room for them, whereas mine
was stuffed full of fancies about myself and other people, none of whom
are historical at all yet--except, perhaps, the great Somerled.

Neither could Basil think exclusively of Burns, as we walked together
through the pleasant town of Ayr, after our early breakfast. He was
absent-minded once or twice, and when I said, "A penny for your
thoughts!" he answered that they were of the book he would like to write
but couldn't.

"The men I want to write about are boiling with primitive passions,"
said he, laughing, "and that won't do for a 'motor-novel.' Not that
people who travel in motor-cars aren't mostly boiling with primitive
passions for one cause or another, every minute. But the critics won't
have it. According to them, characters can experience grand emotions
only when they are keeping still, not when they're being hurled about
the country. The proper place for primitive emotions is in small fishing
villages, or, better still, on Devonshire moors, or, best of all, in the
illimitable desert. So you see the men I have in my mind wouldn't go
down with the critics, because unfortunately they happen to be in a
motor-car."

Talking of men in motor-cars, at that moment an enormous red car, going
very fast, changed its mind suddenly, stopped short in twice its own
length, and out jumped four men. They were the Americans of last night,
and by this time I had mixed up their names (except Jack Morrison's,
because he was so good-looking, with square blue eyes), but they
labelled themselves over again very neatly for me. The freckled one was
Dick Farquhar; the one with a moustache like the shadow of a coming
event, Charlie Grant; the one with the scar on his forehead, Sam
Menzies; but they had funny nicknames for each other. Afterward Basil
said they made him feel as if his name ought to be Methuselah.

The boys had been going to Burns's birthplace in their motor-car, but
they asked if they might walk round the town with us, and take to their
auto later. I looked appealingly at Basil, for they were such fun, so he
said, "Yes, of course"; and they were very polite, and called him "sir,"
as they had Mr. Somerled th