But Gowrie, for business purposes, knew his Bible as well as she did, if not better.
"Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts," he quoted.
"Likewise, 'It is not for kings to drink strong wine,'" she snapped.
"Aye, but I'm nae king ye ken, me'em," retorted the old scamp, then added under his breath, "Deil tak' the wurnon, she a parfect Lamentations o' Jeremy the prophet."
Mrs. Mountford worked no more in the cause of temperance, but sat glooming like a thunderstorm in her corner, while Gowrie tasted with approval the hot yellow wine, which had been brought almost immediately. When he had finished two glasses, he began to relate a perfectly mythical story, but none the less interesting, because it was invented out of his own clever head.
"I'm a mon o' letters," he began.
"Would you mind talking English?" interrupted Maud.
"Nae, nae, young leddy, ye canna get the pow'r in English that ye can in homely Scotch. An' I'm like an Eastern story-teller, aboot tae babble o' strange maitters."
"I'll hear them in English, which I know you can speak," said Maud, who was as obstinate as Gowrie himself, "or I won't listen at all."
"Then ye'll nae find the mon ye want."