“Not particularly.”
“’As it combed an’ curled reg’lar nowadays, ’e do ... sich a ’appy, careless gen’leman ’e used to be, but lately ... well, ’e was a-wearin’ ’is second-best coat yesterday! Ah, a changed man be Sir ’Ector.” And Mr. Bunkle nodded, winked and departed about his business.
His breakfast done, Sir John arose and, mindful of his promise to Herminia, took his hat and sallied forth for the matrimonial “prompting” of the devoted Sir Hector MacLean.
His reception was not propitious, for scarcely had he stepped across Sir Hector’s threshold than that gentleman’s voice hailed him reproachfully:
“Whisht, man—y’r boots!”
“What of ’em, Hector?”
“Ye’ve never s’muckle as wiped ’em, John! D’ye no’ ken wha’ yon mat’s for? Here’s Rose, sweet lass, slavin’ for an auld sojer-body’s comfort, here’s Wully Tamson workin’ himsel’ tae skin an’ bane—when her eye is upon him—an’ here’s ye’sel’, Johnnie, treading dust a’ aboot the floor! O man, hae a leetle conseederation!”
Sir John, having carefully wiped his boots under Sir Hector’s strict supervision, took occasion to glance round and behold the wonders achieved, for indeed chaos had given place to comfort and a dainty orderliness; it beamed and shone, it winked and twinkled in polished brass and silver, it stirred gently in the curtains at open lattice, it lay in the rugs upon raddled floor, it gleamed in the polished andirons on the spotless hearth, and breathed in fragrance from the bowl of flowers upon the mantel.
“’Tis marvellous what a woman can achieve, Hector!”
“Some women, John!”