O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.
Miss Taylor: Really!
The Duchess: I think my husband is right, Miss Taylor.
[From the room beyond comes the sound of voices, or particularly of one voice, raised in argument. Mrs. Montgomery majestically moves up to a view of the proceedings.]
Mrs. Montgomery: Dear me. Mr. Burns seems to be making a speech. I fear I was mistaken.
The Duchess: It’s that foolish man Robertson. He was speaking ill of Mr. Gray’s Elegy. He was very provoking. Mr. Burns does quite right to defend it.
Burns’s voice (from the far room): Sir, I now perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a damned blockhead.
[The Reverend Mr. Robertson, a pedantic and acidulated clergyman, comes hurriedly through the door accompanied by his host, Professor Ferguson, followed by Burns.]