“I warned ye baith, it was a clean impossibility to knock at the door this time. Don’t blame me, young madam—don’t blame me!”
“Where will you sit?” asked Arnold, by way of diverting Anne’s attention from the familiarities of Father Bishopriggs.
“Any where!” she answered, impatiently; snatching up a chair, and placing it at the bottom of the table.
Mr. Bishopriggs politely, but firmly, put the chair back again in its place.
“Lord’s sake! what are ye doin’? It’s clean contrary to a’ the laws and customs o’ the honey-mune, to sit as far away from your husband as that!”
He waved his persuasive napkin to one of the two chairs placed close together at the table.
Arnold interfered once more, and prevented another outbreak of impatience from Anne.
“What does it matter?” he said. “Let the man have his way.”
“Get it over as soon as you can,” she returned. “I can’t, and won’t, bear it much longer.”
They took their places at the table, with Father Bishopriggs behind them, in the mixed character of major domo and guardian angel.