“I know it, Hector.”
“And ’tis memory o’ him and the promise I made him to be ever mindful o’ your welfare hath brought me these weary miles to Parus——”
“And since you are here, you shall stay with me, Hector. Egad, ’twill be like old times!”
“No, no, John,” sighed MacLean, glancing round the luxurious apartment; “you’ve grown too fine for me, these days! My dusty claes wad foul your dainty chairs and silken cushions. No, no, lad, you’re become too grand a gentleman for a poor, rough, old soldier——”
“Tush and a fiddlestick!” exclaimed Sir John, forcing him down into the nearest chair. “My home is yours whenever you will, Hector.”
“Hame, John?” retorted MacLean. “Hame, d’ye call it? Look at this room—all silken fripperies like a leddy’s boudoir.... And talkin’ o’ ladies—look up yonder!”—and he stabbed a bony finger at the painted ceiling where nude dryads sported against a flowery background. “Aye ... obsairve ’em!” snorted MacLean, forsaking precise English for broad Scots—a true sign of mental perturbation. “Gude sakes, regaird yon painted besoms wi’ ne’er a clout tae cover ’em—’tis no’ a sicht for decent eyes!”
“They were done by a famous painter, Hector, and represent the three Graces——”
“Dis-graces, I ca’ ’em! Man, they’re ... fair owerpowerin’!”
“Then don’t heed ’em, Hector; regard me instead.”
“Yourself, is it?” sighed MacLean. “O man, there’s enough o’ lace an’ broidery aboot ye tae rig oot a’ three o’ y’r dis-graces frae top tae tae. Ah, Johnnie lad, when I obsairve a’ y’r finery o’ claes an’ mind hoo y’r father was dressed the day he panted his life oot in my arrms wi’ a French bayonet in his wame ... an auld tattered sairvice coat.... Aweel, aweel, he was a man, John ... dead before you were old enough to ken him, mair’s the peety ... aye, mair’s the peety. An’ to-day, lad, here’s me wi’ ane fut i’ the grave, and here’s yersel’ vera prone tae a’ manner o’ follies an’ sic by reason as you’re wilfu’ and over-young——”