"Look sharp! Father doesn't like to be kept waiting. Don't stop to do
anything but change your wet things. That's your room. You can look
right away and see Mull one side and Skye the other."
Kenneth half pushed his visitor into a bed-room, banged the door, and
went off at a run, leaving Max Blande standing helpless and troubled
just inside, and heartily wishing he was at home in Russell Square.
Not that the place was uncomfortable, for it was well furnished, but he
was tired and faint for want of food; everything was strange; the wind
and sea were playing a mournful duet outside--an air in a natural key
which seemed at that moment more depressing than a midnight band or
organ in Bloomsbury on a foggy night.
But he had no time for thinking. Expecting every moment to hear the
gong sound again, and in nervous dread of keeping his host waiting, he
hurriedly changed, and was a long way on towards ready when there was a
bang at the door.
"May I come in?" shouted Kenneth. But he did not say it till he had
opened the door and was well inside.
"Oh, your hair will do," he continued. "You should have had it cut
short. It's better for bathing. Old Donald cuts mine. He shall do
yours. No, no; don't stop to put your things straight. Why, hallo!
what are you doing?"
"Only taking a little scent for my handkerchief."
"Oh my! Why, you're not a girl! Come along. Father's so particular
about my being in at dinner. He don't mind any other time."
Kenneth hurried his visitor down-stairs, and, as they reached the hall,
a sharp voice said,--
"Mr Blande, I suppose! How do you do? Well, Kenneth, did you have a
good run? Nice day for a sail."
Max had not had time to speak, as the tall, aquiline-looking man, with
keen eyes and closely-cut blackish-grey hair, turned and walked on
before them into the dining-room. The lad felt a kind of chill, as if
he had been repelled, and was not wanted; and there was a sharp, haughty
tone in his host's voice which the sensitive visitor interpreted to mean
dislike.
As he followed into the room, he had just time to note that, in spite of
his coldness, his host was a fine, handsome, _distingue_ man, and that
he looked uncommonly well in the grey kilt and dark velvet
shooting-jacket, which seemed to make him as picturesque in aspect as
one of the old portraits on the walls.
Max had also time to note that a very severe-looking man-servant in
black held open and closed the door after them, following him up, and,
as he took the place pointed out by Kenneth, nearly knocking him off his
balance by giving his chair a vicious thrust, with the result that he
sat down far too quickly.
"Amen!" said the host sharply, and in a frowning, absent way.
"I haven't said grace, father," exclaimed Kenneth.
"Eh! haven't you? Ah, well, I thought you had. What's the soup,
Grant?"
"Hotch-potch, sir," replied the butler.
"Confound hotch-potch! Tell that woman not to send up any more till I
order it."
He threw himself back in the chair as the butler handed the declined
plate second-hand to the guest and then took another to Kenneth.
"'Taint bad when you're hungry," whispered the lad across the table.
Max glanced at his host with a shiver of dread, but The Mackhai was in
the act of pouring himself out a glass of sherry, which he tossed off,
and then in an abstracted way put on his glasses and began to read a
letter.
"It's all right. He didn't hear," whispered Kenneth, setting a good
example, and finishing his soup before Max had half done, for there was
a novelty in the dinner which kept taking his attention from his food.
"Sherry to Mr Blande," said the host sharply; and the butler came back
from the sideboard, where he was busy, giving Max an ill-used look,
which said plainly,--
"Why can't he help himself?"