"That young gentleman, too, I can see, thinks little o' an auld carle like me, yet I'll wager I could tell him where he was last night in the gloaming, only maybe he would not like to have it spoken of in company!"
It was now Lovel's turn to blush, which he did with the vivid crimson of two-and-twenty.
"Never mind the old rogue," said Mr. Oldbuck, "and don't think that I think any the worse of you for your profession. They are only prejudiced fools and coxcombs who do that."
For, in spite of Lovel's interest in ancient history, it still remained in the Antiquary's mind that his young friend must be an actor by profession.
But to this Lovel paid no attention. He was engaged in making sure of Edie's silence by the simple method of passing a crown-piece out of his own pocket into the Blue-Gown's hand; while Monkbarns, equally willing to bridle his tongue as to the building of the prætorian, was sending him down to the mansion house for something to eat and a bottle of ale thereto.
II. THE NIGHT OF STORM
The Antiquary continued to hear good reports of his young friend, and, as it struck him that the lad must be lonely in such a place as Fairport, he resolved to ask Lovel to dinner, in order to show him the best society in the neighbourhood—that is to say, his friend, Sir Arthur Wardour of Knockwinnock, and his daughter Isabella.
Sir Arthur was something of an antiquary also, but far less learned and serious than Mr. Oldbuck. Living so near each other the two quarrelled often about the Pictish Kings of Scotland, the character of Queen Mary, and even other matters more modern—such as the lending of various sums of money. For Sir Arthur always wanted to borrow, whereas the Antiquary did not always want to lend. Sir Arthur was entirely careless as to paying back, while Mr. Oldbuck stood firmly rooted upon the rights of principal and interest. But on the whole they were good friends enough, and the Baronet accordingly accepted, in a letter written by his daughter, the invitation to Monkbarns.
Lovel arrived punctually on the afternoon appointed, for, in the Antiquary's day, dinners took place at four o'clock! It was a brooding, thundery day, sultry and threatening—the 17th of July, according to the calendar.