“Yes! Oh, yes!” answered Mary shyly, a happy smile dimpling her sweet face. Then she added naïvely, “Ye ken, I’ll hae him all to myself then.” Robert laughed merrily at this naïve confession.
“Young man,” observed Mr. Sterne pompously, “take my word for it, you’ll repent it if you leave Edinburgh now.”
“Robbie, what will everybody think?” cried Mrs. Dunlop tearfully. “You are daft to run away while the world is literally at your feet.”
“For how long?” he asked laconically.
“Until you tire of its homage, my lad,” replied Lord Glencairn stanchly.
Robert shook his head with a doubting smile. “’Twill not be I who will tire first, my lord,” he returned quietly. “I know myself and the world so well. You see the novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, my imperfection of awkward rusticity has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely certain my abilities are inadequate to support me.” He looked around a trifle defiantly at the rows of serious faces, a little feeling of resentment welling up in his heart.
“You are over-modest, my dear Burns,” observed Mr. Mackenzie with kindling eye.
Robert shook his head with somber dignity. “Too surely do I see the time when the same tide will leave me and recede as far below the mark of truth.” He turned and faced the people suddenly, his hands outstretched, his eyes filled with melancholy enthusiasm. Raising his voice he proceeded prophetically, “My friends, you will all bear me witness, that when the bubble of fame was at its height I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward to the hastening time when the blow of calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness of revengeful triumph.”
“That time will never come, Robert,” cried Mary softly, “for we will leave this life behind us in a very short while noo.”