“Who may you be?” said the tall lady, with the face like sculptured gingerbread.
“Who was she, you mean, my Lady Frances?” said the Advocate blandly, helping himself to a pinch of snuff. “I can tell you who she is—Mrs. Duncan MacAlpine, wife of my private assistant and the sub-editor of the Universal Review.”
It was the first time he had given me that title, which pleased me, and led me to hope that he meant to accompany the honour by a rise in salary.
“I am—I was—Irma Sobieski Maitland,” the answer was rather halting and faint, for Irma was easily touched, and it was only when much provoked that she put on her “No-one-shall-touch-me-with-impunity” air.
“If the bride be at all uneasy in her mind,” said the Lord Advocate, “here we are at Mr. Dean’s door. I dare say he will step down-stairs into the chapel and put on his surplice. From what I judge of the lady’s family, she will probably have as little confidence in a Presbyterian minister as in a Presbyterian Lord Advocate!”
Freddy and Amelia were waiting across the street. I beckoned to them, and they crossed reluctantly, seeing us talking with my Lord Advocate, whom, of course, all the world of Edinburgh knew. I was not long in making the introductions.
“Miss Craven, late of Yorkshire, and Mr. Frederick Esquillant, assistant to Professor Greg at the College.”
“Any more declarations before witnesses to-day?” said my Lord, looking quaintly at them. “Ah—the crop is not ripe yet. Well, well—we must be content for one day.”
And he vanished into a wide, steeply-gabled house, standing crushed between higher “lands.”
“The Dean will officiate, never fear,” said Lady Frances. “So you have been staying with my sister, and of course she turned you out. Well, she sent you to me, I’ll wager, and you were on your way. You could not have done better than come direct to me.”