The subject was not a grateful one, apparently; Vincent changed it.
"Do you remember," he said, with some little diffidence, "that—that I was in your house one afternoon a few weeks ago when an old gentleman called—and—and his granddaughter—"
"The perfervid old Scotchman—yes!"
"How did you come to know him?" the young man asked, with downcast eyes.
"I hardly recollect. Let me see. I think he first of all wrote to me, enclosing a note of introduction he had brought from a friend of mine in New York—a brother Scot. Then, as you saw, he called, and told me something further about a book he is going to bring out; and I gave him some little assistance—I don't think he is above accepting a few sovereigns from any one to help him on his way through the world."
Vin Harris flushed hotly—and he raised his head and looked his friend straight in the face as he put the next question.
"But—but he is a gentleman!—his name—his family—even his bearing—"
"Oh, yes, yes, I suppose so," Lord Musselburgh said, lightly. "Poor old fellow, I was glad to lend him a helping hand. I think his enthusiasm, his patriotism, was genuine; and it is a thing you don't often meet with nowadays."
"Yes—but—but—-" Vincent said, with a good deal of embarrassment, and yet with some touch of half-indignant remonstrance, "the money you gave him—that was to aid him in bringing out the book, wasn't it?"
"Certainly, certainly!" the other made answer—he did not happen to notice the expression on his friend's face. "Something about Scotland—Scotch poetry—I think when he wrote he said something about a dedication, but that is an honour I hardly covet."