'Why?' asked Hawkey.
'They must soon perceive that I am tabooed by the county families—that no one calls here as of old.'
'Well?'
'Except, perhaps, the people from the Manse and the doctor.'
'Neither—or none—of whom I care to see.'
'And yet I subscribe to all local charities, bazaars, school feasts, as regularly——'
'As if you were an Elder of the Kirk—thereby wasting your money to win a place among the "unco guid," and all to no purpose,' said Hawkey, with the slightest approach to derision. 'Well—well; how I shall succeed with the fair Maude—if I succeed at all—time and a little management, in more ways than one, will show,' he added with knitted brows and hands clenched by thoughts that were full of vague but savage intentions.
'You know the proverb,' said Mrs. Lindsay, with a cold smile, as she lifted up her dog and retired: 'a man may woo as he will, but maun wed where his weird is.'
Hawkey Sharpe set his teeth, and his eyes gleamed as he thought with—but did not quote—Georges Ohnet, because he knew him not: 'Money is the password of these venal and avaricious times. Beauty, virtue, and intelligence count for nothing. People no longer say, "Room for the worthiest," but "Room for the wealthiest!"'
Then other things occurred to him.