'And you fell in with this girl——'
'When our battalion was sharing duty with the Dutch Guards at the Prince of Orange's palace in Amsterdam.'
'And how about her mother?' growled the General.
'She was very averse to my attendance on her daughter till——'
'Till when or what?' snapped the uncle.
'She asked me some questions concerning my name and family, and then suddenly I became quite a favourite.'
'All cunning—all cunning! But our name and our blood are as good as any in Holland, and better than some, I suppose; but every Scot has a pedigree, as King James was wont to say.'
And as General Kinloch spoke, the strong old Scottish accent, which then prevailed at the Bar and in the Pulpit at home (as it had done at Court in the preceding century), deepened with his excitement and irritation.
'And the mother is a widow, Drumlanrig tells me,' he continued; 'a widow who, I doubt not, loves her coffee with a glass of good curaçoa from De Pylsteeg at Amsterdam.'
'Indeed you mistake her, uncle,' replied the young man indignantly.