“Noo, my leddy, dinna begin to mak’ ghem o’ me, like my lord. I cud ill bide it frae him, an’ gien ye tak till ’t as weel, I maun jist haud oot o’ yer gait. I’m nae gentleman, an’ hae ower muckle respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at bein’ ca’d ane. But as for the Laitin, I’ll be prood to instruck yer leddyship whan ye please.” “I’m afraid I’ve no great wish to learn,” said Florimel. “I daur say no,” said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go. “Do you like novels?” asked the girl. “I never saw a novelle. There’s no ane amo’ a’ Mr Graham’s buiks, an’ I s’ warran’ there’s full twa hunner o’ _them_. I dinna believe there’s a single novelle in a’ Portlossie.” “Don’t be too sure: there are a good many in our library.” “I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in Portlossie. --Ye’ll hae a sicht o’ buiks up there, no?” “Have you never been in the library?” “I never set fut i’ the hoose--’cep’ i’ the kitchie, an’ ance or twise steppin’ across the ha’ frae the ae door to the tither. I wad fain see what kin’ o’ a place great fowk like you bides in, an’ what kin’ o’ things, buiks an’ a’, ye hae aboot ye. It’s no easy for the like o’ huz ’at has but a but an’ a ben (_outer and inner room_), to unnerstan’ hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. I wad be aye i’ the libbrary, I think. But,” he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, “yer leddyship’s sae licht-fittit, ye’ll be ower the haill dwallin’, like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I like it wantin’ wa’s.” Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him. “Do you ever read poetry?” “Ay, sometimes--whan it’s auld.” “One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve poetry as well?” “I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me a glaiss the ither day, an’ it tastit weel, but whether it was _merum_ or _mixtum_, I couldna tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age does gar poetry smack a wee better; but I said _auld_ only ’cause there’s sae little new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. Mr Graham’s unco ta’en wi’ Maister Wordsworth--no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken onything aboot _him_, my leddy?” “I never heard of him.” “I wadna gie an auld Scots ballant for a barrowfu’ o’ his. There’s gran’ bits here an’ there, nae doobt, but it’s ower mim-mou’ed for me.” “What do you mean by that?” “It’s ower saft an’ sliddery-like i’ yer mou’, my leddy.” “What sort do you like then?” “I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou’fu’ o’ _him_. I dinna like the verse ’at ye can murle (_crumble_) oot atween yer lips an’ yer teeth. I like the verse ’at ye maun open yer mou’ weel to lat gang. Syne it’s worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan’ ’t or no.” “I don’t see how you can say that.” “Jist hear, my leddy! Here’s a bit I cam upo’ last nicht: