“Dead and buried,” droned Grange, for the sake of saying something.
“Not dead,” exclaimed she, “else I had been in mourning!”
Balnillo bowed again, bringing his attention back with a jerk from the direction in which it had been fixed.
“Come, my lord, what have you been doing all this long time?”
“I have been endeavouring to improve my estate, ma’am.”
“And meanwhile you have left us to deteriorate. For shame, sir!”
“Edinburgh morals are safe in Lord Grange’s hands,” rejoined Balnillo, with a sudden flash of slyness.
Mrs. Cockburn smiled behind her fan. There were odd stories afloat about Grange. She looked appreciatively at Balnillo. He had not changed, in spite of his country life; he was as dapper, as ineffective, and as unexpected as ever. She preferred him infinitely to Grange.
“Fie, Davie!” broke in the latter, with a leer; “you are an ungallant dog! Here is Mrs. Cockburn wasting her words on you, and you do nothing but ogle the lady yonder by the window.”
Three pairs of eyes—the bright ones of Mrs. Cockburn, the rather furtive ones of Balnillo, and the sanctimonious orbs of Lord Grange—turned in one direction.