“Looks are deceivin’, lassie,” quickly replied Souter, who objected seriously to kilts. “My legs are na’ my beauty point, for a’ that; they are just twa wee bones, I tell ye, so be prepared for the worst,” and he shook his head dolefully.
“Oh, well, as Mr. Burns says, ‘A man’s a man, for a’ that!’” she replied sweetly. Then after a moment’s reflection, she asked with tender solicitude, “Are they so very wee, Souter?”
“Aye, ye should see them,” he replied eagerly, hoping to convince her as to his unfitness to wear the dress.
Eppy held up her hands before her face in horror. “Whatever are you saying, Souter?”
“Weel, my legs are a maist sensitive subject wi’ me, my dear,” he returned apologetically.
“Turn around,” she commanded. He did so in wonder. “Keep on turning,” she commanded. “I think, mayhap, they’re not so bad,” she observed after a critical inspection. “However, after we are wed I can decide better whether ye can wear the kilt or not.”
Souter regarded her in meek astonishment, then he humbly rejoined, “Weel, if ye can stand their looks, I’ll na’ complain, but it’s o’er chilly at times,” and he shivered apprehensively.
She laughed gayly. “Now, Souter, I must go home. Come over soon, you masterful man!”
“Aye, the first thing in the morning,” retorted Souter calmly, “an’ I’ll bring the minister wi’ me.”