"This is never the way to
please the ladies, Mr. Balfour."
"But, mistress," said I, "there are surely other things besides
mere beauty."
"By which I am to understand that I am no better than I should be,
perhaps?" she asked.
"By which you will please understand that I am like the cock in the
midden in the fable book," said I. "I see the braw jewel--and I
like fine to see it too--but I have more need of the pickle corn."
"Bravissimo!" she cried. "There is a word well said at last, and I
will reward you for it with my story. That same night of your
desertion I came late from a friend's house--where I was
excessively admired, whatever you may think of it--and what should
I hear but that a lass in a tartan screen desired to speak with me?
She had been there an hour or better, said the servant-lass, and
she grat in to herself as she sat waiting. I went to her direct;
she rose as I came in, and I knew her at a look. 'Grey Eyes!' says
I to myself, but was more wise than to let on. YOU WILL BE MISS
GRANT AT LAST? she says, rising and looking at me hard and pitiful.
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