"I won't detain you from such important business," said Lady
Florimel, and dropped her eyes on her book.
"Gien ye want my company, my leddy, I can luik aboot me jist as
weel here as ony ither gait," said Malcolm.
And as he spoke, he gently stretched himself on the dune, about
three yards aside and lower down. Florimel looked half amused and
half annoyed, but she had brought it on herself, and would punish
him only by dropping her eyes again on her book, and keeping silent.
She had come to the Florimel of snow.
Malcolm lay and looked at her for a few moments pondering; then
fancying he had found the cause of her offence, rose, and, passing
to the other side of her, again lay down, but at a still more
respectful distance.
"Why do you move?" she asked, without looking up.
"'Cause there's jist a possible air o' win' frae the nor'east."
"And you want me to shelter you from it?" said Lady Florimel.
"Na, na, my leddy," returned Malcolm, laughing; "for as bonny's ye
are, ye wad be but sma' scoug (shelter)."
"Why did you move, then?" persisted the girl, who understood what
he said just about half.
"Weel, my leddy, ye see it's het, an' I'm aye amang the fish mair
or less, an' I didna ken 'at I was to hae the honour o' sittin'
doon aside ye; sae I thocht ye was maybe smellin' the fish. It's
healthy eneuch, but some fowk disna like it; an' for a' that I ken,
you gran' fowk's senses may be mair ready to scunner (take offence)
than oors.
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