he idea of dedicating it to Somerled, as he'll be
taking us through Scotland in his car."

"I had. But I feel now it would be a mistake. He couldn't refuse, and
one wouldn't be sure he was pleased. He's so horribly important, you
know. I don't mean in his own eyes, but in the eyes of the world; so
nothing we could do for him would really confer an honour. And the
reason he's cynical and bored is because people have fussed over him so
sickeningly, more and more every year, since he began to rise to what he
is."

"Yet I don't think he's conceited."

"Not in the ordinary way. But he can't help knowing that he's some one
in particular. He began to like us because we didn't fuss over him, or
seem to go out of our way to please him. That's where I've been clever;
for oh, Basil, I'd do anything short of disfiguring myself to win him."

"My poor girl!" Norman exclaimed.

She caught him up hastily. "Why do you call me 'poor?' Do you think I
shan't succeed? Do you think he'll never care?"

"You're a far better judge than I am," her brother answered evasively.
"Women feel such things. We----"

"You feel things, too. You know you do, Basil."

"In an abstract way--not when they're just in front of my eyes."

"He has told me a lot about himself, anyhow." Aline took up a new line
of argument, out of her own thoughts. "That's a good sign. He is so
reserved with almost everybody--and he was even with me till our last
evening on shipboard. I was telling him about Jim dying in India and
leaving me alone there, almost a girl; and how there was no money; and
how I took up writing and made a success. Then from that we drifted into
talk about success in general; and he told me his whole story--much more
than I'd ever heard from gossip, and a good deal of it quite different.
I took it as the greatest compliment that he should open his heart to
me--and a splendid sign."

"Yes, I suppose it was both," Norman agreed; and Aline had retired too
far within the rose-bower of happy memories to catch a suggestion of
doubt in his voice.

"I read once in a newspaper that he'd been a bootblack in Glasgow before
he emigrated," Mrs. West said, as they turned away from the house again
in their walk, and set their faces toward the distant gate. "It wasn't
true. His father was a crofter on a little island somewhere near Skye. I
think it's called Dhrum. I never heard of it before; and he had to
excuse my ignorance, because I'm Canadian! It seems th