I did as she bade me, and she doffed hat and joseph. She set me comfortably before the fire in an elbow-chair, and handed me a new pipe and a fresh paper of tobacco, and insisted on my smoking. Then, sitting almost at my feet in a squat rush-bottomed chair, with quaint bow legs and a back like a yard of ladder, she set to work on the holes Brocton's rapier had made in my coat. I felt very cubbish as I sat feeding my soul on the picture she made as she bent over her stitchery. A rare hobbledehoy I was in my villainous coat, but what I looked like in my shirt-sleeves, good linen enough but home-made and with never a shred of cuff or ruff to them, was past imagining. She was quite silent too, and though talk of any sort would have been distasteful to me then, for the picture was enough, I could not help remembering how she had rattled on with Maclachlan. Here was another cursed deficiency. My conversation was as country-like and poverty-stricken as my clothes. I had always ruled the roast at our market ordinaries, where I was looked upon as a bit of a fop and a miracle of learning, and even my farming was solemnly respected because I was so hard and ready a hitter. Here, in a parlour and with her, so beautiful that even her beautiful dress scarce attracted a passing glance, I was dull and ill at ease. The only thing I did, except to look at her, was to let my pipe out and light it again, time after time. "The man in the shop told me," Margaret said, "that was the best tobacco that comes from the Americas." "I should think it is," said I; "I've never smoked better." "It gives you a lot of trouble," she answered, and stayed her stitching for a moment to look at me. "Did you get some right Strasburg for the Colonel?" I asked. "No. Is he running short?" "Yes," said I. "And no marvel, either. He puts his snuff-box under his pillow, and when I take him his chocolate of a morning, he takes a long, affectionate pinch, and then says, 'Good morrow, sweetheart!'" I laughed, and then fell silent and wondered. While I had been loafing about the town, she had been attending to my small whims and needs. And now, after a smart rap at the door, in flounced a sprightly, elegant lady, very gay and very certain of herself. "What a charming, domestic picture!" she broke out. "I fear I intrude, Margaret dear, but I'm going to stay. The girl is bringing up the tea, and I'm positively dying for a cup and a sit-down. Of course this"--turning gaily round on me, standing there like a great gawk, volubly cursing my shirt-sleeves under my breath--"is the incomparable Oliver! Charmed to meet you, sir!" I bowed, and Margaret said staidly, "Yes, my lady. This is Master Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards. Oliver, I have the privilege of introducing you to the Lady Ogilvie." I bent in the middle again and gabbled something. It was suitable to the occasion, I hope. Lady Ogilvie eyed me up and down carefully, much as I should overlook a bullock I had a mind to buy.