“Ah, John lad, but true love taketh a deal o’ killing, and moreover——” “Gad’s life!” laughed Sir John. “What know you o’ love?” Sir Hector quailed somewhat, dropped his hat and grew uncommonly red in the face, picking it up. “Why, since you ask,” he answered, “I—I’ve read some such in a book.... But, talkin’ o’ Rose—Herminia——” “Is so much waste o’ time and breath, Hector.” “John ... O Johnnie, dae ye mean that?” “Extremely!” “You hae no desire to see her, or hear——” “Positively no!” “Then ye’re a heartless gomeril!” “Venus be thanked!” “Man, are ye gone gyte? John, this is no’ like ye. ’Tis unworthy! This smacks o’ pride an’ fulish pique!” Sir John flushed angrily and opened the lattice. “Enough, Hector!” said he, glancing out into the street. “Let us converse of other things—my chaise should be here soon.” “John,” continued Sir Hector in his most precise English, “thou’rt throwing away a great love, such a love as cometh to bless but few poor mortals, and then but once, for true love, John, being lightly scorned, cometh not again ... forbye, I read this in a book also!... But, O lad, ’tis in my mind you shall come to rue this bitterly—aye, to your last hour.” “Why, then, pray heaven I live not overlong!” Sir Hector stared into the coldly smiling face before him much as it had been the face of a stranger. “Why, then, I’m by with ye, John!” sighed he. “Only this, either you are utterly heartless and selfish or....” “Or, Hector?” “Or agonising for her in your heart!” “And yonder,” said Sir John, glancing from the window—“yonder is the chaise at last, I think.” The vehicle in question having drawn up before the inn, Sir John put on hat and cloak and they descended the stair, all three, and with never a word between them. “The valises, Robert?” “Here, your honour!” “The trunk, Robert?” “Aye, sir!” And, beckoning to the post-boy, Robert hurried back upstairs, leaving Sir John to glance at the chaise, the horses, the blue sky and the deserted street, while Sir Hector stared gloomily at his own shabby hat, turning it over and over as if it had been some rare and very curious object. “’Tis to Parus ye’ll be gangin’, John?” “Very like, Hector.” “An’ the de’il! Aye, ’tis the muckle de’il ye’re bound for, lad!” “Not necessarily, Hector.” “Troth, an’ indeed Auld Hornie’ll hae ye in his cloofs for guid and a’ this time. Oh, ’tis waefu’ an’ a’ by reason o’ your stubborn, wilfu’ pride!... An’ here was Auld Hector dreamin’ o’ ye settlin’ doon at last wi’ a bonny wife ... aye, an’ bairns, mebbe!... I was thinkin’ if ... your first chanced to be a boy ... mebbe you’d name him after me. Hector’s no sic a bad name, Johnnie ... but now....” “Now, Hector, seeing I have not the remotest thought of marrying, why not get wed yourself ... Mrs. Saunders, say ... and call your first son ‘John’ after me?” “Whisht, lad, dinna lichtlie the matter! Do not mock, sir!” “I speak in all seriousness, Hector.”