Thus, Hector MacLean, or more properly, General Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean, six foot four of Highland Scot, having surveyed painted walls, polished floor and frescoed ceiling, folded mighty arms, scowled at Sir John’s shapely, unconscious back and emitted a sound that none but a true-born Scot may ever achieve.
“Umph-humph!” exclaimed Hector MacLean; whereupon Sir John started, dropped his quill and was upon his feet all in a moment, modish languor and exquisite affectations all forgotten in eager welcome.
“Hector!” he exclaimed, grasping the Scot’s two bony fists; “Hector man, what should bring you all the way to Paris—and me—after all this time?”
“Four years, John, four years and mair!” nodded Sir Hector. “Four years and they might be eight, judging by y’r looks. Lad, I’d hardly know ye ... sic a mighty fine gentleman an’ sae pale——”
“A delicate pallor is the mode, Hector,” smiled Sir John. “But what brings you to Paris?”
“Aye—what, John?” retorted Sir Hector, with a dour shake of the head. “Who but yourself! What’s all this I’m hearing concerning ye, John?”
“Evil beyond a doubt, Hector—evil, I’ll wager. But ’tis no reason you should stand and scowl when you might sit and smile like the old friend you are——”
“Aye, always your friend, lad, if ’twere only for your father’s sake!”
“And mine also, I hope, Hector?”
“Aye, John, though you’re no the man your father was!”