“What do you mean, sir, by asking me such a question? Nae wooers! I tell you I had dizzens o’ lads running after me night and day, in thae pleasant times.”
“Well, but I don’t mean in the common way. I mean, had you any real sweetheart—any absolute offer?”
“Offer, sir! Indeed I had more than one. Wasna there Peter Shanks, the hosier, that perfectly plagued me, the dirty body? But ye see, sir, I couldna bear the creature, though he had twa houses in Camlachie; for, to tell you my weakness, sir, my heart was set upon—”
“Upon whom, Miss Brodie? Ah, tell me!”
“Upon a sharpshooter.”
“Bless my heart! But if you would just let me hear the tale.”
“Ah, sir, it’s a pitiful story,” said Miss Peggy, becoming lachrymose.
“I delight in pitiful stories,” said I, taking out my handkerchief.
“Weel, sir,—‘love and grief are sair to bide,’ as the sang says, and my heart wasna made o’ the adamant rock; so ye see, sir, there was a lad they ca’d Pate Peters, an’ he was in the sharpshooters; and he sat just quite near me in Mr Dumdrone’s kirk, for ye see, sir, it was there we fell in. Oh, sir, Pate was a beautiful youth: teeth like the ivory, an’ eyes as black as the slae, and cheeks as red as the rose.”
“Ah, Miss Brodie, Miss Brodie!”