“So it would have been, sir, if I had had more money; but, ye see, fifty pounds a year is thought nothing o’ now-a-days; an’ these kinds o’ people are terrible greedy o’ siller. Na, na, sir, gie me the sharpshooters yet.”
“Well now, Miss Brodie,” said I, “as we’re on the subject, let me hear how it was you lost your precious opportunities in the volunteering time.”
“Oh, sir, that was the time—volunteering! There never was such days as the volunteering days. Drums here, and bands o’ music there; sodgering up, and sodgering down; an’ then the young men looked so tall in their regimentals, and it was such a pleasure just to get ane o’ them by the arm, and to parade wi’ them before the Tontine, an’ then a’ your acquaintances to meet you walking wi’ a braw sharpshooter, and talking about you after in every house; and such shaking hands in the Trongate, and such treating us wi’ cakes in Baxter’s,—for the volunteering lads were sae free o’ their siller in thae days, puir chields! Oh, thae were times!”
“There are no such times now, I fear, Miss Peggy.”
“Oh, no, sir. An’ then the lads thought nothing to take you to the play at night, in thae days; and what a beautiful thing it was to sit in the front o’ the boxes o’ the big theatre in Queen Street, wi’ a red-coated, or a green-coated volunteer—it was so showy, and such an attraction, and a talk. To be sure, sir, it’s no a’thegither right to go openly to common playhouses; but a man must be got some place, an’ ye ken the sharpshooters couldna gang to the kirk in their green dress, puir fallows.”
“But you never told me, Miss Brodie, what art or mystery there is in man-catching, and yet you speak as if some of your female friends had practised, something past the common to that intent.”
“It’s not for me to speak to you about women’s affairs, Mr Balgownie; but I can tell you one thing. Do you mind lang Miss M‘Whinnie, dochter of auld Willie M‘Whinnie, that was elder in Mr Dumdrone’s kirk?”
“I think I recollect her face,” said I.
“Weel, sir, this was the way she used to do. Ye see, she was a great walker (for she was a lang-leggit lass, although her father is a wee gutty body), and if ye took a walk in the Green or the Trongate, ye’re sure to meet lang-leggit Nelly M‘Whinnie, lamping wi’ a parasol like a fishing-rod, simmer and winter, lookin’ ower her shoulder now and then to see when she should fa’ aff her feet.”
“Fall, Miss Brodie?—What do you mean by falling?”