In the brief lull that followed the general laugh, the voice of Lord Glencairn could be heard in conversation with Mary, who was earnestly gazing up into his face, all traces of timidity gone, for she felt singularly at her ease in the presence of the kindly old nobleman. “And so you mean to take Robert away from us for good, eh?” he was saying in his earnest, serious manner.
“Ye ken he is fair anxious to get back to Mossgiel now,” replied Mary, blushing deeply.
Lady Glencairn snapped her fan together convulsively. “You mean to leave Edinburgh for good?” she asked in faint, incredulous accents, turning to Robert.
The people crowded around and a storm of protest arose. “What madness!” “Leave Edinburgh for the country!” “They couldn’t hear of such a thing.” “He owed a duty to them as Scotland’s Bard!” etc., etc.
Robert turned to them and spoke lightly, although with an undercurrent of seriousness. “I ken I am but wasting my time, my energies, my talents here, amid the sensual delight which your city affords,” he said. “I am not formed for it. I am but a rustic at heart and in manners, and the country is my only vantageground.”
Mary stole softly to his side and snuggled her hand in his. “Isn’t it sweet to be in love?” cried Eppy cooingly, to Sir William, in a sibilant aside. “Think what we are missing.”
“We’re too old for such nonsense,” replied Sir William gruffly.
“Oh, indeed!” flashed Eppy. “Huh, a woman’s never too old to love,” with an indignant toss of her head.
“No, nor to make a fool of herself,” retorted Sir William, smiling grimly.