“Surely, Lundie, ye do not complain of yer portion of it. You've risen to be a major, and will soon be a lieutenant-colonel, if letters tell the truth; while I am just one step higher than when your honored father gave me my first commission, and a poor deevil of a quartermaster.”
“And the four wives?”
“Three, Lundie; three only that were legal, even under our own liberal and sanctified laws.”
“Well, then, let it be three. Ye know, Davy,” said Major Duncan, insensibly dropping into the pronunciation and dialect of his youth, as is much the practice with educated Scotchmen as they warm with a subject that comes near the heart,—“ye know, Davy, that my own choice has long been made, and in how anxious and hope-wearied a manner I've waited for that happy hour when I can call the woman I've so long loved a wife; and here have you, without fortune, name, birth, or merit—I mean particular merit—”
“Na, na; dinna say that, Lundie. The Muirs are of gude bluid.”
“Well, then, without aught but bluid, ye've wived four times—”
“I tall ye but thrice, Lundie. Ye'll weaken auld friendship if ye call it four.”
“Put it at yer own number, Davy; and it's far more than yer share. Our lives have been very different, on the score of matrimony, at least; you must allow that, my old friend.”
“And which do you think has been the gainer, Major, speaking as frankly thegither as we did when lads?”
“Nay, I've nothing to conceal. My days have passed in hope deferred, while yours have passed in—”