“But is it a proper boat for me to have a row in?”
“No wi’ that goon on, mem, as I telled ye afore.”
“The water won’t get in, will it?”
“No more than’s easy gotten oot again.”
“Do you ever put up a sail?”
“Whiles—a wee bit o’ a lug-sail.”
“Nonsense, Flory!” said the marquis. “I’ll see about it.” Then turning to Malcolm,—
“You may go,” he said. “When I want you I will send for you.”
Malcolm thought with himself that he had sent for him this time before he wanted him; but he made his bow, and departed—not without disappointment, for he had expected the marquis to say something about his grandfather going to the House with his pipes, a request he would fain have carried to the old man to gladden his heart withal.
Lord Lossie had been one of the boon companions of the Prince of Wales—considerably higher in type, it is true, yet low enough to accept usage for law, and measure his obligation by the custom of his peers: duty merely amounted to what was expected of him, and honour, the flitting shadow of the garment of truth, was his sole divinity. Still he had a heart, and it would speak,—so long at least, as the object affecting it was present. But, alas! it had no memory. Like the unjust judge, he might redress a wrong that cried to him, but out of sight and hearing it had for him no existence. To a man he would not have told a deliberate lie—except, indeed, a woman was in the case; but to women he had lied enough to sink the whole ship of fools. Nevertheless, had the accusing angel himself called him a liar, he would have instantly offered him his choice of weapons.