“And suppose I did, sir?” retorted Sir Hector, flushing. “A MacLean may change his mind and be the better of it.... And how may I help but revere and admire The Sex with such an example as Rose, her sweet and gentle ways——”
“But Rose never was!” sighed Sir John.
“Herminia, then!” snapped Sir Hector.
“Not to mention her aunt!” murmured Sir John.
At this, Sir Hector glared and made to rise, but, meeting Sir John’s whimsical look, feeling his hand upon the sleeve of the second-best coat, Sir Hector flushed, his gaze sought the green of the chestnut tree beyond the open window, and his grim lips curved to a smile.
“And ... O man, tae think she’s—a duchess! ’Tis awfu’, Johnnie, awfu’!”
“Alas, Hector, to think she is a woman, and this is worse. A woman, Hector, and therefore to be avoided. For, how saith your bard?
‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’”
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and rose. “Aweel, lad,” he sighed, “I dinna ken wha’ bee’s in y’r bonnet regardin’ yon sweet Rose, but——”
“Lady Herminia!” Sir John corrected.