"I did not forget you," she said.
"That is amazing," said I, "—a maid so run after and so courted."
She plucked another blade of grass, and so sat, pulling at the tender verdure, her head bent so that I could not see what her eyes were thinking, but her lips seemed graver.
"Well," said I, "is there news of Mr. Fonda?"
"None, sir."
"Tell me," said I, smiling, "why, when I speak, do you answer ever with a 'sir'?"
At that she looked up: "Are you not Lord Stormont, Mr. Drogue?" she asked innocently.
"Why, no! That is, nobody believes it any more than did the Lords in their House so many years ago. Is that why you sometimes say 'my lord,' and sometimes call me 'sir'?"
"But you still are the Laird of Northesk."
"Lord!" said I, laughing. "Is it that Scottish title bothers you? Pay it no attention and call me John Drogue—or John.... Or Jack, if you will.... Will you do so?"