Presently a lull occurred in the discussion, and Lady Glencairn smilingly introduced the garrulous old lady to the poet, as a “warm admirer of his poems.” “And of you, too,” eagerly interrupted Eppy, clasping his hand in both of her own. “Oh! I have longed for this moment, that I might clasp the hand of Scotia’s Bard, and tell him how I love him,”—she broke off with a smothered giggle. “I mean his poems; oh, they are too heavenly for utterance,” and she rolled her little gray eyes till only the whites showed. “Sibella—she’s my sister, and a dear creature if I do say so—and I have had many a lovely cry over them,” she rattled on hardly pausing for breath. “Ah, they have made us so happy. You must come and see her, won’t you, she’s a writer also, and you can have a sweet talk over your art. We belong to a literary family, you know. Rob Don, the Gaelic poet, belonged to our clan. We take after him.” She smiled affectedly and batted her little eyes in what she fondly believed a very fetching manner.
Robert had vainly tried to edge in a word, and now stood listening to the silly prattle, a smile of amusement playing round his mobile mouth.
“A long way after,” observed Sir William dryly. Then he threw up his hands in dismay, for Eppy had started off again.
“Here I am rattling off a lot of nonsense,” she gurgled, “but I do enjoy your talking so much, Mr. Burns. I vow I could listen to it all day. I shall always remember this happy occasion of our meeting.” She stopped, out of breath, panting but happy.
Robert regarded her quizzically for a moment while an audible titter was heard throughout the rooms. “You quite overwhelm me, Miss McKay,” he drawled at last. “But I have nevertheless enjoyed conversing with you. Really, madam, I felt quite eloquent and did myself full justice,” and he bowed gravely.
“Oh, you flatterer!” tittered Eppy, slapping his arm coquettishly with her fan. “But I am not madam yet.” She ventured a quick look at Sir William.
“Robert, I have been requested to ask you to recite one of your favorite poems; will you honor us?” asked Lord Glencairn, coming forward.
At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices. “Oh, do recite, Mr. Burns!” “Please give us ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Ride,’” etc., etc.
Robert slowly looked around him at the sea of faces, and suddenly a feeling of resentment filled his heart. Must he parade himself before these empty-headed noodles, who regarded him in the light of a curiosity, a plaything, to amuse them by his antics? Why didn’t they ask Mr. Mackenzie or Mr. Sterne or Dr. Blacklock, Mr. Ramsay, or any one of the others to read from their books?