“Miss Horn,” he said, “I beg you will give me another day to think of this.”
“Whaur’s the use? A’ the thinkin’ i’ the warl’ canna alter a single fac’. Ye maun du richt by my laddie o’ yer ain sel’, or I maun gar ye.”
“You would find a lawsuit heavy, Miss Horn.”
“An’ ye wad fin’ the scandal o’ ’t ill to bide, my lord. It wad come sair upo’ Miss —— I kenna what name she has a richt till, my lord.”
The marquis uttered a frightful imprecation, left the door, and sitting down, hid his face in his hands.
Miss Horn rose, but instead of securing her retreat, approached him gently, and stood by his side.
“My lord,” she said, “I canna thole to see a man in tribble. Women’s born till ’t, an’ they tak it, an’ are thankfu’; but a man never gies in till ’t, an’ sae it comes harder upo’ him nor upo’ them. Hear me, my lord: gien there be a man upo’ this earth wha wad shield a wuman, that man’s Ma’colm Colonsay.”
“If only she weren’t his sister!” murmured the marquis.
“An’ jist bethink ye, my lord: wad it be onything less nor an imposition to lat a man merry her ohn tellt him what she was?”
“You insolent old woman!” cried the marquis, losing his temper, discretion, and manners, all together. “Go and do your worst, and be damned to you!”