“I hae that ... and o’ the lass, forbye! O John, John, is she wi’ ye yet?”
“Indeed, Hector, safe and sound!”
“O man, are ye rin clean daft?”
“Never saner, Hector.”
“A common, country serving-wench, puir lass.... O man John!”
“Nay, Hector, the most uncommon serving-wench that ever served since serving was or wenches were!”
“Hoot-toot—dinna palter wi’ worrds, John! Think o’ y’r reputation!”
“Nay, faith,” sighed Sir John; “’tis so devilish blown upon, so warped and weatherbeaten, that I had fain forget it. And as for my Rose——”
“Oh, shame, John, for shame!” exclaimed Sir Hector, falling into his precise English. “I had hoped you had left such wickedness behind in Paris with your scandalous marquises and such.”