So
I walked softly and watchfully about, and in doing so had turned sharp to
the right to gain a view of the river and the gardens, when I came on the
Lady Ogilvie. She was kneeling on a cushioned settle, resting her chin in
her hands, and her elbows on the high back of the seat.
She turned to see who it was. Her face was clouded over, but the sun of
her smile broke through in a flash, and she darted joyously at me.
"It's the incomparable one!" she cried, bubbling over with merriment.
"Nay, I vow, it's the still more incomparable one. Losh, man, and ye look
bonny! I'm telling it ye, and I've seen more bonny men than you've seen
bullocks. Sit down and tell me where you've been and what you've done.
Davie says you tell't him I was very, very guid. And so I am," she ended
complacently, "and if any man says the differ...."
"He'll do well to keep out of Davie's road and mine," I cut in, as I was
building up the cushions into a soft corner for her.
"You're an unco' guid lad," she said, wriggling into her nest, "an' if it
werena for some one I ken I'd gie ye anither kiss."
I willingly admit that I wished Davie far enough, for she was a very
dainty lady, with a mouth like an open rose-bud.
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