*CHAPTER XXXI.* Herries, whose eyes had narrowed and whose lips were set, held his hands behind him and made an inclination so haughty and so slight that it was barely perceptible. Jean brought in the lights. ’We have met ere this, sir, I think,’ said Burns, not unpleasantly. He knew Herries perfectly by sight, and had no reason to suppose he would resent the imputation of being seen at some of the first houses in Edinburgh. ’I was hitherto unaware of the honour,’ said Herries, with appalling frigidity, and it would have needed no very acute observer to have seen the hot and sensitive blood rush to the poet’s face. He, however, contained himself with dignity enough. Alison’s fingers, cold with fright, were twisted together with nervousness. She certainly did not improve matters by saying to the poet,— ’Mrs. Maclehose was not expecting you just now, I think, sir?’ ’Why, no, madam,’ said the Bard; ’but I could not come at a later hour, and I swear the strings of your harp so drew me that I could not forego coming now rather than not at all. We must finish "Lassie wi’ the Lint White Locks," and to that grand tune "The Rothiemurchus Rant," or I will go clean _wud_,[*] I think. It rings i’ the head o’ me half right, and yet not right. Tantalus himself could not endure it.’ The poet had set back his shoulders and spoke out freely and boldly, as though by the divine right of his genius the little room and all it held, including Alison, were his. He ignored Herries. As to Herries, Alison could see him without looking at him, could tell the very tilt his fine and scornful brows were set at, could feel, through her very back, the coldness of his stare. And yet her courage rose. Oh, he would be angry—sore displeased! But better by far he should be angry for a little while than any longer deceived. [*] Mad. It was fortunate for all concerned that Nancy returned at this critical juncture. She took in the state of matters in an instant, and with ready wit and supple tact did all that one little woman could do to save the situation. She bustled about, she chattered, she rallied the poet on the rareness of his visits (he had been there the previous night), she pulled a chair up to the hearth for Herries, and almost pushed him into it. ’Now, cousin,’ she said coolly, ’you’ll witness one of our own little symposiums, and hear how marvellously Ally is improving on the harp.’ She ardently hoped—though she did not expect—that Herries would go. But this he had no intention of doing. Alison had left the room, and the boy Willy was shouting for Herries from an inner chamber, where he slept, and Herries went to him. Nancy’s whole aspect, voice, and manner, changed in his absence.