Between bites I answered questions as to how she had looked, what she'd said, done, and so forth.
"Was she wearing her brown riding-coat with the pretty wee shoulder capes?" he asked.
"No," said I, becoming more interested.
"Or her creamy dress with the gold flowers all over it?"
"No," said I again, smiling at my discoveries.
"She's keeping 'em for London," he explained. "Gosh, man! She will look divine in 'em."
"She won't," said I, clipping away at the sweet bits still hanging on the carcass of my chicken.
"It'll take your logic all its time to keep six inches o' cauld steel out of your brisket," he said very fiercely.
"Never had better chicken in my life," said I, watching him out of one eye--quite enough for any Scotsman.
"Damn the chicken!" he roared. "Why won't she?"