Mr. Robertson: Did you hear that?
Professor Ferguson: I beg you, Mr. Robertson—
Robertson: It is highly preposterous—
Burns: Will you allow me, sir, to apologise? I withdraw my observation, and you may call the Elegy what you will.
Ferguson: May I add my word—
Robertson: Very well, very well. I will overlook your indiscretion, Mr. Burns. And believe me Gray is a very inferior poet.
[They are now followed into the room by Dr. Blacklock, the aged blind poet, and Lord Muir, a middle-aged sporting laird. Blacklock sits beside the Duchess of Gordon, conducted by Ferguson; Robertson by Miss Taylor; Muir on a chair near them; Ferguson goes to Walter Scott, who has returned to his book at the window; and Burns joins Mrs. Stewart, who is still seated at the piano. There is an undercurrent of conversation from the various groups.]
Miss Taylor (to Robertson): That was extremely generous of you, dear Mr. Robertson.
Robertson: Charity becomes my cloth, madam.
Muir (immensely pleased with the incident): Yes, but a damned blockhead. That’s straight riding, you must allow that, sir.