She admitted that she was excited, and perhaps a little absent-minded; but "all this," as I called it, was too wonderful not to capture her interest in spite of everything.
"Think of Queen Mary and her four Maries, and Darnley, and Rizzio, and Bothwell, and John Knox passing along as we pass now, on their way up to Holyrood?" said I.
"Yes. Oh, yes! I do think of them," she answered obediently, her eyes straying into the shadows of wynd or close, or tracing out the detail of some carved gargoyle on an old façade.
"Only you think of yourself more——"
"Not myself exactly. But——"
"What then?"
"Well—one thinks of queer things in a place like this, full of romances and—and love stories. I was wondering——"
"Yes. Don't be afraid to tell me. We're fellow-authors, you know—brother and sister of the pen."
"That's it! Brother and sister, aren't we? How nice!"
"Of the pen," I amended hastily.