You have set off before eleven from Ballindalloch Station. The sky is high and overcast; delicate as an answer to prayer. The air is still and cool. These conditions are well met; bright sun is no more favourable to perspective than to walking comfort; wind is seldom acceptable. You must provide a merry heart to breast the matter ahead in snow time; it is a stormy region.

In the precincts of the Railway Goods Yard (the good thing implied is whisky) a commercial name suggests a subject for reminiscence, to pass the time.

There was a man named Gilbey, a breeder of shire horses, slight and wonderfully tailored, with a small, grey, cadaverous head; the two elements becomingly united by abundance of white stock.

‘The Prince once said to me (but that was, of course, before my title): “I am going to have a few serious words with Mrs. Gilbey.”

‘I must have looked astonished, for the Prince said: “I do not think that she takes proper care of you”; adding something about a man of value and importance.

‘I must have looked more astonished, for the Prince said: “I do not think you are sufficiently clad.”

‘“Oh, Sir,” I said; “I may mention that I am wearing at the present moment four pairs of socks, two pairs of drawers, three undershirts, two waistcoats, five coats, two pairs of trousers, some other garments and two pairs of boots.”

‘But the Prince did not seem at all satisfied.’ Cross the traffic road, and continue by the direction ‘Kilnamachlie.’ The scene soon gets to work.