'It's a patriotic sang in honour,' Mrs. Pumpherston started to explain——
'Ach, woman!' cried her spouse, 'ye've made me loss ma key.' He re-struck the fork irritably, and proceeded to inform the company—'It's no exac'ly a new sang, but——'
'Ye'll be lossin' yer key again, Geordie.'
With a sulky grunt, Mr. Pumpherston once more struck his fork, but this time discreetly on the leg of his chair, and in his own good time made a feeble attack on 'Rule, Britannia.'
'This is fair rotten,' Macgregor muttered at the third verse, resentful that his love should be apparently enjoying it.
'Remember ye're a sojer,' she whispered back, 'an' thole.' But she let him find her hand again.
The drear performance came to an end amid applause sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Pumpherston.
'Excep' when ye cracked on "arose," ye managed fine,' she said to her perspiring mate, and to the hostess, 'What think ye o' that for a patriotic sang, Mistress McOstrich?'
'Oh, splendid—splendid!' replied Mrs. McOstrich with a nervous start. For the last five minutes she had been lost in furtive contemplation of her two youthful guests, her withered countenance more melancholy even than usual.
Ten o'clock struck, and, to Macgregor's ill-disguised delight,
Christina rose and said she must be going.