“I thank ye muckle for the compliment,” said the doctor, dryly; “but I ha’e my doubts they’d think it ane, and they’re crusty carls that’s no’ ower safe to meddle wi’.”
“I’d as soon propose a hand of ‘spoiled five’ to the Pope of Rome, as a joke to one of them,” returned Maurice.
“May be ye are na wrang there, Maister Quell.”
“Well,” cried Hampden, “if I may be allowed an opinion, I can safely aver I know no quarters like Scotland. Edinburgh beyond anything or anywhere I was ever placed in.”
“Always after Dublin,” interposed Maurice; while a general chorus of voices re-echoed the sentiment.
“You are certainly a strong majority,” said my friend, “against me; but still I recant not my original opinion. Edinburgh before the world. For a hospitality that never tires; for pleasant fellows that improve every day of your acquaintance; for pretty girls that make you long for a repeal of the canon about being only singly blessed, and lead you to long for a score of them, Edinburgh,—I say again, before the world.”
“Their ankles are devilish thick,” whispered Maurice.
“A calumny, a base calumny!”
“And then they drink—”
“Oh—”