"I suppose you have been a good many times to the theatre."

"To the Piccadilly Theatre?"

"Yes."

"I have been only once to the Piccadilly Theatre--when you and I went
together," said Macleod, coldly; and they spoke no more of that matter.

By and by they thought they might as well smoke outside, and so they
went down and out upon the high and walled terrace overlooking the broad
valley of the Thames. And now the moon had arisen in the south, and the
winding river showed a pale gray among the black woods, and there was a
silvery light on the stone parapet on which they leaned their arms. The
night was mild and soft and clear, there was an intense silence around,
but they heard the faint sound of oars far away--some boating party
getting home through the dark shadows of the river-side trees.

"It is a beautiful life you have here in the south," Macleod said, after
a time, "though I can imagine that the women enjoy it more than the
men. It is natural for women to enjoy pretty colors, and flowers, and
bright lights, and music; and I suppose it is the mild air that lets
their eyes grow so big and clear. But the men--I should think they must
get tired of doing nothing. They are rather melancholy, and their hands
are white. I wonder they don't begin to hate Hyde Park, and kid gloves,
and tight boots. Ogilvie," said he, suddenly, straightening himself up,
"what do you say to the 12th? A few breathers over Ben-an-Sloich would
put new lungs into you. I don't think you look quite so limp as most of
the London men; but still you are not up to the mark. And then an