"Your lordship commands me," said Mr. Soutar.
"Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave," said Mr. Graham.
"Whaur's Mr. Morrison?" asked Malcolm.
"He is still in the house," said Mr. Soutar.
"Gang till him, sir, an' gar him promise, on the word o' a gentleman, to haud his tongue. I canna bide to hae't blaret a' gait an' a' at ance. For Mistress Catanach, I s' deal wi' her mysel'."
The door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred by the immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanach walked into the room.
"A word wi' ye, Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm.
"Certainly, my lord," answered the howdy with mingled presumption and respect, and followed him to the dining-room. "Weel, my lord—" she began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, in the tone and with the air—or rather airs—of having conferred a great benefit, and expecting its recognition.
"Mistress Catanach," interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her, "gien I be un'er ony obligation to you, it's frae anither tongue I maun hear't. But I hae an offer to mak ye: Sae lang as it disna coom oot 'at I'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae yer twinty poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. But the moment fowk says wha I am ye touch na a poun'-not' mair, an' I coont mysel' free to pursue onything I can pruv agane ye."
Mrs. Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as putty and its muscles declined response.