"I never saw a novelle. There's no ane amo' a' Mr Graham's buiks,
an' I s' warran' there's full twa hunner o' them. I dinna believe
there's a single novelle in a' Portlossie."
"Don't be too sure: there are a good many in our library."
"I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in Portlossie
--Ye'll hae a sicht o' buiks up there, no?"
"Have you never been in the library?"
"I never set fut i' the hoose--'cep' i' the kitchie, an' ance
or twise steppin' across the ha' frae the ae door to the tither.
I wad fain see what kin' o' a place great fowk like you bides in,
an' what kin' o' things, buiks an' a', ye hae aboot ye. It's no
easy for the like o' huz 'at has but a but an' a ben (outer and
inner room), to unnerstan' hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon.
I wad be aye i' the libbrary, I think. But," he went on, glancing
involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her
dress, "yer leddyship's sae licht fittit, ye'll be ower the haill
dwallin', like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I
like it wantin' wa's."
Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained
him.
"Do you ever read poetry?"
"Ay, sometimes--whan it's auld."
"One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve
poetry as well?"
"I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me a glaiss the
ither day, an' it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum,
I couldna tell mair nor a haddick.
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