‘Well, what do you think of the young Scotchman, Sophy?’ asked Hubert on his return to the drawing-room, after Alec had taken his leave. Sophy raised her eyebrows, and dropped the corners of her mouth. ‘I hardly know,’ she replied. ‘He is very unconventional; not commonplace certainly. I rather like him. He has fine, expressive eyes. But he has no manners.’ ‘That will come in time,’ said Hubert, stifling a yawn. ‘You can’t expect fine manners from a farmhouse.’ Hubert was right. As the months went on Alec unconsciously learned to adapt his manners to those of the Londoners. He lost, in part, the roughness of his Scottish speech; and he insensibly acquired a more polished and conventional style of address. He visited not infrequently at Grove House, even when Blake was no longer to be found there; and Sophy began to take quite a strong liking for him. ‘Take care, Sophy,’ said Hubert one day laughingly, as he noticed what good friends the two had become; ‘take care, or Alec’s _beaux yeux_ will be too much for you.’ Sophy turned away; and Hubert thought she looked hurt, he didn’t know why. Alec had been at Messrs. Hatchett’s office for some months, when one day, as he passed through the outer office, Beattie came downstairs with a small sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Where’s MacGowan?’ he asked sharply. ‘He’s not come down to-day yet, sir,’ answered one of the other clerks. ‘I believe he’s not very well.’ Beattie made no reply, but his face wore a very ugly look as he turned and left the room. ‘’E’ll get the sack _this_ time, and no mistake,’ Alec overheard one of the clerks say to another, as he went out. He went on to Lincoln’s Inn, and on his way back to the office he met MacGowan coming, apparently, away from the office, with a very miserable expression of countenance. He looked, indeed, a pitiable object, even more dilapidated than usual, while his pale face and trembling hands showed that he had not yet recovered from the effects of his last drinking-bout. Over his arm hung a tattered coat, in which he had laboured at the desk for the last six years. This garment he changed to his left arm on Alec’s approach, and held out his right hand. ‘Fareweel, Maister Lindsay,’ said the poor fellow, with an air half sad, half comical. ‘They’ve gien me the sack. That’s the result o’ bein’ conveevial. Weel. It’s a wide warl, an’ a chancey; but we’ll maybe foregather[3] again some day. Ye’ve been a guid freen’ to me, Maister Lindsay. As for that sma’ maitter o’ the five shillin’s ye lent me--perhaps ye’ll allow me--tae----’ The sentence was artistically constructed. It was capable of being turned into an offer of repayment or a request that the matter might be allowed to stand over for a time, according as circumstances might direct; and it was accompanied by the production of an extremely shabby leathern purse, which evidently was but scantily furnished.