‘I ken ye dinna ken whaur she is, for I div,’ returned Kirsty. ‘Ye answer a queston I never speired! What are ye aboot wi’ Phemy, I challenge ye again! Puir lassie, she has nae brither to say the word!’
‘That’s a’ verra weel; but ye see, Kirsty,’ he began—then stopped, and having stared at her a moment in silence, exclaimed, ‘Lord, what a splendid woman you’ve grown!’—He had probably been drinking with his mother.
Kirsty sat speechless, motionless, changeless as a soldier on guard. Gordon had to resume and finish his sentence.
‘As I was going to say, you can’t take the place of a brother to her, Kirsty, else I should know how to answer you!—It’s awkward when a lady takes you to task,’ he added with a drawl.
‘Dinna trouble yer heid aboot that, Francie: hert ye hae little to trouble aboot onything!’ rejoined Kirsty. Then changing to English as he had done, she went on: ‘I claim no consideration on that score.’
Francis Gordon felt very uncomfortable. It was deuced hard to be bullied by a woman!
He stood silent, because he had nothing to say.
‘Do you mean to marry my Phemy?’ asked Kirsty.
‘Really, Miss Barclay,’ Francis began, but Kirsty interrupted him.
‘Mr. Gordon,’ she said sternly, ‘be a man, and answer me. If you mean to marry her, say so, and go and tell her father—or my father, if you prefer. She is at the Knowe, miserable, poor child! that she did not meet you to-night. That was my doing; she could not help herself.’