“I daur say no,” said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go.
“Do you like novels?” asked the girl.
“I never saw a novelle. There’s no ane amo’ a’ Mr Graham’s buiks, an’ I s’ warran’ there’s full twa hunner o’ them. I dinna believe there’s a single novelle in a’ Portlossie.”
“Don’t be too sure: there are a good many in our library.”
“I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in Portlossie. —Ye’ll hae a sicht o’ buiks up there, no?”
“Have you never been in the library?”
“I never set fut i’ the hoose—’cep’ i’ the kitchie, an’ ance or twise steppin’ across the ha’ frae the ae door to the tither. I wad fain see what kin’ o’ a place great fowk like you bides in, an’ what kin’ o’ things, buiks an’ a’, ye hae aboot ye. It’s no easy for the like o’ huz ’at has but a but an’ a ben (outer and inner room), to unnerstan’ hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. I wad be aye i’ the libbrary, I think. But,” he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, “yer leddyship’s sae licht-fittit, ye’ll be ower the haill dwallin’, like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I like it wantin’ wa’s.”
Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him.
“Do you ever read poetry?”
“Ay, sometimes—whan it’s auld.”