“And your master?” said Phillis, in that interrogatory tone which invites a confidence.
“The gen'ral 's too auld a soldier no to respec deescepline,” said he, dryly.
“Oh, that's it, Sanders.”
“Ma name's Bob Flint, and no Saunders,—gunner and driver i' the Royal Artillery,” said the other, drawing himself up proudly; “an' if we are to be mair acquaint, it's just as well ye 'd mind that same.”
As Bob Flint possessed that indescribable something which would seem, by an instinct, to save its owner from impertinences, Mr. Phillis did not venture upon any renewed familiarity, but led the way into the house in silence.
“That's a bra' cookin' place ye've got yonder,” said Bob, as he stopped for a second at the door of the great kitchen, where already the cooks were busied in the various preparations; “but I'm no so certain my leddy wad like to see a bra' giggot scooped out in tha' fashion just to mak' room for a wheen black potatoes inside o' it;”—the operation alluded to so sarcastically being the stuffing of a shoulder of mutton with truffles, in Provencal mode.
“I suppose her Ladyship will be satisfied with criticising what comes to table,” said Phillis, “without descending to the kitchen to make objections.”
“If she does, then,” said Flint, “she's mair ceevil to ye here than she was in the last hoos we spent a fortnight, whar she discharged twa maids for no making the beds as she'd taw'd them, forbye getting the coachman turned off because the carriage horses held their tails ower high for her fancy.”
“We'll scarce put up with that here,” said Phillis, with offended dignity.
“I dinna ken,” said Bob, thoughtfully; “she made her ain nephew carry a pound o' dips from the chandler's, just, as she said, to scratch his pride a bit. I 'd ha' ye mind a wee hoo ye please her fancy. You 're a bonnie mon, but she'll think leetle aboot sending ye packing.”