"Of course, mamma, you know I am much too old for Quentin."
"Too tall, at least, to talk nonsense," replied Lady Eglinton, whose ideas of deportment belonged to the last century, and whose old-fashioned stateliness always abashed Quentin, who blushed like a great schoolboy as he was, and played nervously with his little hat.
"What, mamma!" persisted Mary, "mayn't I still flirt with Quentin?"
But her mother, who, with all her kindness of heart, had always doubts about the wisdom of lavishing so much attention on a strange child (whose future and antecedents were alike obscure), as the Rohallion family bestowed on poor Quentin Kennedy, turned away to speak with her host and hostess, leaving the young people to themselves, while the carriage, with its double imperial, was driven round to the stable court.
"I hope you have had a pleasant journey from the South?" said Lady Rohallion.
"We had a break-down at York, and I was sorely tired when we reached Edinburgh. There I was somewhat recompensed by hearing Kemble in Macbeth, and Mrs. Kemble sing the new fashionable ballad, 'The Blue Bells of Scotland,' at the conclusion of the piece; but the candle-snuffers neglected our box so much, that, before the farce, we were driven to the card assembly in the new room in George-street, where, for a dull little town, there was a pretty genteel assemblage; though the dresses of the women were five years behind London, I was glad to see hair-powder still worn in such profusion."
"Since the Union," said Lady Rohallion, "Edinburgh has been a city of the dead, and very different from what our grandmothers described it."
"A veritable village, where one meets none above the rank of mere professional men, struggling hard, poor fellows, to keep up appearances."
"But at the assembly, mamma, there was one person of position," said Lady Jane.
"True, child—the young Earl of Aboyne, whose name was unfortunately associated with that of the late unhappy Queen of France, Marie Antoinette."