“The young men are apt to think so,” added Flora.
“But have young women more sense than old ones?” said I. “Because I see, whenever people mean to speak of anything as particularly silly, they always say it is worthy of an old woman. Now why an old woman? Have I more commonsense now than I shall have fifty years hence? And if so, at what age may I expect it to take leave of me?”
“You are not talking sense now, at any rate,” replied Angus—who might be my brother, instead of my cousin, for the way in which he takes me up, whatever I say.
“Pardon me,” said Mr Keith. “I think Miss Caroline is talking very good sense.”
“Then you may answer her,” said Angus.
“Nay,” returned Mr Keith. “The question was addressed to you.”
“Oh, all women are sillies!” was Angus’s flattering answer. “They’re just a pack of ninnies, the whole lot of them.”
“It seems to me, Angus,” observed Mr Keith, quite gravely, “that you must have paid twopence extra for manners.”
Flora and I laughed.
“I was not rich enough to go in for any,” growled Angus. “I’m not a laird’s son, Mr Duncan Keith, so you don’t need to throw stones at me.”