Like Mr.
Johnson, I love men and loathe dancing-masters, and these Scotsmen were
men indeed, my Lord Ogilvie, as I came to know later, one of the choicest.
He was a spare-built man, in years thirty or thereabouts, with a face all
lines and angles, and dotted with pock-marks. For a lord, his purse was
very bare of guineas, and nature had made up for it by giving him a belly
full of pride. For him, the Highland line had been the boundary of the
known world, so that his mind was a chequer-work of curious ignorance and
knowledge.
From the first I liked him for his joy in his dainty lady. She was the
daughter of a cadet of a distant branch of the famous Bobbing John's
family, and had spent nearly all her life in France till, on a chance
visit to Scotland, she had been snapped up by Ogilvie. They were a
strangely matched pair, she from the gay _salons_ of Paris, he from
the misty mountains of the north; but mutual love had assorted them to
admiration, for the heart of each was sound as a bell.
Between bites I answered questions as to how she had looked, what she'd
said, done, and so forth.
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