"By all means," I said with a gesture of elaborate politeness.
He sat down at my table, in my chair, and used my instrument—becoming at once absorbed and oblivious to my banter as per below:
"As Scotchmen," I said, "are monuments rather than men, this latest raid on Edinboro's worthy inhabitants must be called vandalism rather than murder."
No answer. I continued to stand by my chair.
"How pleased Swift, Johnson, Lamb, and other anti-Caledonians would be...."
"Hope you don't mind my occupying your chair a little longer," the Scotchman said, "but this is a larva, has curious maxillæ...." and his voice faded away in abstraction.
"Oh! no—go on," I said, "I fear it is a grievous absence of hospitality on my part in not providing you with a glass of whiskey. Can I offer you water, Sir?"
No answer.
Another enthusiast ushered himself in, was greeted with delight by the first and invited to sit down. I pulled out a chair for him and said:
"Shave, sir, or hair cut?"