e night before. But each time they used the
word, Basil looked as if he were swallowing bad medicine, and yet as
though he were inclined to laugh. Presently, however, he went ahead with
Mrs. James, following his sister and Sir S., and left me to the four
boys. We laughed at everything. I'm afraid it wasn't at all the spirit
to go hero-worshipping; and none of them knew anything about "The Twa
Brigs" of Burns's poem. I should have liked to call Basil and ask him,
but they said they should feel it would be money in their pockets never
to have been born if I "shunted" them like that, so we laughed a great
deal more and went on wallowing in ignorance. They seemed to take it for
granted that I would rather be with them than with the others, and they
paid me all sorts of funny compliments. They vowed that they had
resolved to change their whole trip because of me, and wherever I was
going they would go too; so, just for fun, I would tell them nothing
except that it was to be Edinburgh on Monday. Cross-question as they
might, I would say no more than that they must find out my hotel, and
how I was related to "Mrs. Bal" (as they all called her) for themselves,
if they were to find out at all.

They knew little more about Wallace than Burns. When we stopped in front
of the monument in the High Street, coming back from the Auld Brig, Jack
Morrison began grandly with "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," but he
could get no farther, and stopped to ask helplessly, "Where _did_ he
bleed, anyhow? Was it here, and if not, why did they put up the
monument?"

Even I knew that Wallace was born in Ayr; and when I impudently inquired
what they came to Europe to see, if they cared more about football than
history, they all answered that they came to see pretty girls. "And, by
Jove, we're doing it!" added Charlie Grant.

"Can't you find pretty girls at home?" I sneered.

"We have found 'em. We're looking for new types now," said Jack. "So's
the great Somerled, isn't he? He told my Cousin Marguerite that he was
going a long journey in search of a model with the right shade of hair,
which was hard on her, poor girl, as she's spent a pot o' money on hers.
But Somerled's a sardonic sort of chap, don't you think? They say his
money's spoilt him. He hardly ever paints nowadays. Too busy grubbing
for millions. I've heard that you have to go on your knees to get him to
do a portrait--and if he graciously consents, you can't tell but he'll
bring out