examined Private Thomson through eye-glasses on a long
tortoise-shell handle.

'Macgregor, who is this gentleman?'

'It's jist Wullie Thomson,' said Macgregor, annoyed but reluctant
to hurt his friend's feelings. 'D'ye no mind him?'

'I have a very exclusive memory for faces. . . Dear me, he is
going away!'

It was so. Either the glasses, or being called a gentleman, or
both, had been too much even for Willie.

'Is the colonel in the vicinity?' Aunt Purdie demanded, recalling
Macgregor's wondering gaze from the retreating figure.

'I couldna say. He's liker to be in a cauld bath.'

'You have, of course, informed him who your uncle is?'

'Me an' the colonel ha'ena done much hob-nobbin' as yet,' Macgregor
said, smiling.

'His mother used to obtain her groceries from your uncle. If you
could have presented the colonel to me--well, never mind. I
presume the major is on the _quee vive_.'

'He'll be ha'ein' a wash an' brush up, I wud say.'