“Solitude, is it? Umph-humph! An’ what o’ a’ your loving frien’s?” “Meaning yourself, Hector?” “Ou aye, there’s ever mysel’, John; forbye, there’s ithers, ye ken——” “Begging your pardon, sir,” said the Corporal, taking his hat, “I’ll step along, then, if I may, your honour?” And at a nod from Sir John he departed, closing the door carefully behind him, which Sir John promptly locked and bolted. “I say, there’s ithers, John!” repeated Sir Hector, seating himself by the open casement. “Why, there is Corporal Robert; other friends have I none, Hector.” “Dinna be a muckle fule, John! Ye ken vera weel there’s Mrs. Saund—— I mean the.... Her, for one, and—abune a’, lad, there’s that sweet, gentle maid——” “Whom can you mean, Hector?” “I mean Rose, an’ weel ye ken it.” “Rose doth not exist.” “Well, Herminia, then. She loves ye, Johnnie.” “Hector, you rave!” “I tell ye she loves an’ is grieving for ye——” “A fiddlestick, Hector!” “The de’il awa’ wi’ ye! I say she’s breakin’ her heart for ye, John!” “Impossible! She hath no heart. She is naught but selfish pride, a creature hard and cold, soulless and fickle ... in fine, a very woman! And talking o’ The Sex, I have here a small effort in verse that I venture to think is somewhat felicitous. Hark’ee and judge!” And, selecting one of the many sheets of manuscript before him, Sir John read as follows: “Old Satan womankind did plan To be the bane and plague of man, And woman since the world began Hath been so. For, be she, more than common, fair She is but Satan’s chiefest snare. Wherefore, then, of her wiles beware: They bring woe.” “Hoot awa’!” ejaculated Sir Hector indignantly. “’Tis rankest blasphemy!” “’Tis very truth! And faith, it reads better than I thought. Mark this line, Hector, ‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’ ’Tis apt, Hector; ’tis well expressed and should commend itself to all philosophers! Now, hear the rest—nay, you must and shall! ’Tis brief, yet pithy.” And Sir John read forthwith: “Therefore, who’d lead a quiet life, Unmarred by turmoil, care and strife, Avoid that dreadful thing called ‘wife’; She’ll plague you! Thus, is she as Aurora fair; Or eke like night her raven hair, ’Stead of her I would choose, I swear, The ague. “How think you of it, Hector?” “That it should burn!” “Nay, rather in due season shall it lighten the page of _The Satyric Spy, or Polite Monitor_. Indeed and verily, Hector, you were right and I was wrong, for women, as you once truly said, are the devil!” Sir Hector’s keen gaze wavered for once, and he stirred uneasily in his chair. “John,” quoth he, precise in his English, “if ever I voiced such damnable heresy, which I gravely doubt, I ha’ forgot it, long since, as a man and a MacLean should.” “Forgot it, Hector? Amazing! You that have ever held Woman in such disdainful abhorrence!”