“Then perhaps you are wrong,” said Malcolm, “for charity thinketh no evil. You wouldn’t stay to see the thing out.”
“There ye are at yer English again! an’ misgugglin’ Scriptur’ wi’ ’t, an’ a’ this upo’ Setterday nicht—maist the Sawbath day! Weel, I ha’e aye h’ard ’at Lon’on was an awfu’ place, but I little thoucht the verra air o’ ’t wad sae sune turn an honest laad like Ma’colm MacPhail intill a scoffer. But maybe it’s the markis o’ ’im, an’ no the muckle toon ’at’s made the differ. Ony gait, I’m thinkin’ it’ll be aboot time for me to be gauin’ hame.”
Malcolm was vexed with himself, and both disappointed and troubled at the change which had come over his friend, and threatened to destroy the life-long relation between them; his feelings therefore held him silent. Peter concluded that the marquis was displeased, and it clenched his resolve to go.
“What w’y am I to win hame, my lord?” he said, when they had walked some distance without word spoken.
“By the Aberdeen smack,” returned Malcolm. “She sails on Tuesday. I will see you on board. You must take young Davy with you, for I wouldn’t have him here after you are gone. There will be nothing for him to do.”
“Ye’re unco ready to pairt wi’ ’s noo ’at ye ha’e nae mair use for ’s,” said Peter.
“No sae ready as ye seem to pairt wi’ yer chairity,” said Malcolm, now angry too.
“Ye see Annie ’ill be thinkin’ lang,” said Peter, softening a little.
No more angry words passed between them, but neither did any thoroughly cordial ones, and they parted at the stairs in mutual, though, with such men, it could not be more than superficial estrangement.