“Not so good as ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ That serves for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey.”
“Ah! you are an English woman!”
“Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at Flodden than King James, or”—for she grew rather ashamed of having been impelled to utter the personal allusion—“better to have been the Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together.”
“I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian,” coolly answered the Master of Glenbracken.
“Why?” was all that Ethel could say in her indignation.
“It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen,” he answered.
“If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to be a Scot.”
“And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!”
“Ogilvie!” called Norman, “are you fighting Scottish and English battles with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for going to Blenheim.”
The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much, while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any effort in using the arguments that puzzled her—she was in earnest, while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this, and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest; and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue with him.