“You will oblige me greatly by not referring to the late Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray, stiffly.
“Oh, beg pardon, you know. No offence meant.”
“It is granted,” said Sir Murray; and then, in a different tone: “There goes the dressing-bell.”
The gentlemen strolled up in silence to the entrance, where the major-domo—Mr Alexander McCray—who seemed to rule supreme at Merland, now stood waiting the arrival of his master.
“I’m thinking, Sir Mooray,” he said deferentially, “that ye’d like a pony-carriage sent to meet my young lady.”
“What—has she not returned?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.
“Nay, Sir Mooray, not yet awhile, and I should hae sent wi’oot saying a word, but that I thocht my laird here would tell us which road she gaed.”
“Towards the waste—the snipe ground, you know,” said his lordship, on being appealed to.
“Send at once, McCray. No: go yourself,” said Sir Murray.
“I’ll go with him,” said his lordship, who now seemed about wakening to the fact that he had grossly neglected his intended; and five minutes after the old Scot was driving briskly towards the village.