A faint moon was shimmering along the surface of Loch Dour in icy little
ripples when they pulled out from the shadows of the hillside. By the
accident of position, Gray, who was steering, sat beside Ailsa in the
stern, while the consul and Mr. Callender were further forward, although
within hearing. The faces of the young people were turned towards each
other, yet in the cold moonlight the consul fancied they looked as
impassive and unemotional as statues. The few distant, far-spaced lights
that trembled on the fading shore, the lonely glitter of the water,
the blackness of the pine-clad ravines seemed to be a part of this
repression, until the vast melancholy of the lake appeared to meet and
overflow them like an advancing tide. Added to this, there came from
time to time the faint sound and smell of the distant, desolate sea.

The consul, struggling manfully to keep up a spasmodic discussion on
Scotch diminutives in names, found himself mechanically saying:

"And James you call Jamie?"

"Ay; but ye would say, to be pure Scotch, 'Hamish,'" said Mr. Callender
precisely. The girl, however, had not spoken; but Gray turned to her
with something of his old gayety.

"And I suppose you would call me 'Robbie'?"

"Ah, no!"

"What then?"

"Robin."