"I trust that my mother has not filled your dear little head with her usual nonsense about Scotch patriotism, the defunct Pretender, the unlucky Union, and so forth--eh? I always said that the verses addressed to her by her rhyming friend Burns, the democratic gauger, turned her head; and this new man, Scott, with his Marmions and Minstrels, bids fair to make the disease chronic. You have no idea, Miss Warrender, how we laugh at all such stuff in London. Patriotism indeed! It doesn't pay, so Scotchmen don't adopt it, and they are wise. All patriotism _not_ English is purely provincialism, and any man holding other opinions in Parliament would be as much out of place as a crusader or a cavalier. But to return to what I was saying. I should like to show you the great world that lies beyond the Craigs of Kyle and the rocky hills of Carrick--to take you back again to London." "London is to me full of sad memories." "Sad--the deuce--how?" "For there my dear mother died," said Flora, lowering her voice and withdrawing her hand, while her eyes and her heart filled with emotion. After a pause: "I love you, dear Flora," said Cosmo, again taking possession of her hand, and placing his lips close to her shrinking ear. "Our marriage is the dearest wish of my mother's heart, as it was of yours--and, may I add, that it is the dearest hope of mine?" This was coming to the point with a vengeance! Instead of being mightily flattered or overcome, as he not unnaturally expected, Flora, without withdrawing her hand, as if its retention mattered little, turned half round, and said, with a quiet, cairn smile: "Remember how little I have known you, sir, save through your parents, my guardians." "True; the duties of honour at Court, and--ah, ah!--my profession, Flora, called me elsewhere; but you don't refuse me, eh? My dear girl--the deuce!--you surely can't mean that?" Flora grew pale and hesitated, for with all her love for Lady Rohallion, she had a kind of awe of her, and Cosmo was eyeing her coldly and steadily through his glass. "Nay, speak, Flora," said he, with, perhaps, more irritation than tenderness in his tone. "I have, perhaps, not much personally to recommend me to a young girl's eye, and this wound, which I got at the Helder, when assisting to compel those Dutch devils to hoist the colours of the Prince of Orange--a sabre-cut across the face--has not improved me; but speak out, Flora Warrender; notwithstanding the ties between us, you refuse me?" "This proposal possesses all the abruptness of a scene in a drama." "Well, what is life but an absurd drama? 'All the world's a stage, and the men and women merely players.'" "Well, I am not inclined to play the part you wish." "You refuse me?" he reiterated, his eyes the while assuming their wicked and louring expression. "I do, Cosmo Crawford," she replied, trembling very much, but speaking, nevertheless, firmly; "I do once and for ever refuse you."