‘He has as good as asked me,’ answered Phemy, who had fits of apprehensive recoil from a downright lie.
‘Noo there I cud ’maist believe ye! Ay, that wud be ill eneuch for Francie! He never was a doonricht leear, sae lang’s I kenned him—ony mair nor yersel! But, for God’s sake, Phemy, dinna imagine he’ll ever merry ye, for that he wull not.’
‘This is really insufferable!’ cried Phemy, in a voice that began to tremble from the approach of angry tears. ‘Pray, have you a claim upon him?’
‘Nane, no a shedow o’ ane,’ returned Kirsty. ‘But my father and his father war like brithers, and we hae a’ to du what we can for his father’s son. I wud fain haud him ohn gotten into trouble wi’ you or ony lass.’
‘I get him into trouble! Really, Miss Barclay, I do not know how to understand you!’
‘I see I maun be plain wi’ ye: I wudna hae ye get him into trouble by lattin him get you into trouble!—and that’s plain speykin!’
‘You insult me!’ said Phemy.
‘Ye drive me to speyk plain!’ answered Kirsty. ‘That lad, Francie Gordon,——’
‘Speak with respect of your superiors,’ interrupted Phemy.
‘I’ll speyk wi’ respec o’ ony body I hae respec for!’ answered Kirsty.