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.
Pages:
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319