An’ ay we’ll taste the barley bree.”
A knock on the door interrupted his song.
“Weel, who is it?” he called impatiently.
“Open the door,” replied a female voice eagerly.
“A lassie,” exclaimed John in amazement. “Oh, Robbie, ye devil.” He swung open the door and stood back to allow the gorgeously dressed lady to enter the room. Her dress of rich purple brocaded silk, cut in the extreme of fashion, rustled stiffly over the polished floor. Her head with its powdered wig was held haughtily erect as she surveyed the room with sparkling black eyes that nervously took in her surroundings, through the tiny holes in the black mask which concealed her face.
“I—I thought—isn’t Mr. Burns at home?” she stammered uneasily.
“Weel, what may ye be wantin’ wi’ Mr. Burns?” asked John cautiously. He had been bothered to death with answering the questions of the silly women who flocked to the parlors of the inn in hopes of seeing their idol.
The lady turned on him sharply. “None of your business, my good man,” she retorted haughtily. “How dare you question me, sirrah?”
John was quite taken aback by the imperious tones, but he still had his suspicions. “Weel, I thought perhaps ye were one o’ the artless bonnie wenches who were here last night wi’ the lads makin’ merry till the wee sma’ hours. If ye are——” he paused significantly.