"Ready, Vin? Come along, then! Did you hear the old man and his poetry?--a harmless old maniac, I think. Well, let's be off to Victoria; we'll get down to the Bungalow in time for a good hour's lawn-tennis before dinner."
Meanwhile old George Bethune and his granddaughter were being driven away eastward in the cab; and he was chatting gaily to her, with the air of one who had been successful in some enterprise. He had doffed his Scotch plaid; and, what is more, he had also abandoned the Scotch accent in which he had addressed 'his loardship.' It was to be a great book, this collection of Scotch-American poetry. It would enable him to pay a well-deserved compliment to many an old friend of his in Toronto, in Montreal, in New York. He was warm in his praises of this young Lord Musselburgh; and predicted a great future for him. Then he put his head out of the window and bade the driver stop--opposite the door of a wine-merchant's office.
"Grandfather," said the girl, "may I wait for you in the cab?"
"Certainly not," he answered with decision. "I wish you to see men and things as part of your education. Live and learn, Maisrie--every moment of your life."
Leaving the Scotch plaid in the cab, he crossed the pavement and went into the office, she meekly following. The wine-merchant was sent for, and presently he made his appearance.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Glover," old George Bethune said, with something of an air of quiet patronage, "I wish to order some claret from you."
The tall, bald, bland-looking person whom he addressed did not seem to receive this news with any joy; but the young lady was there, and he was bound to be courteous; so he asked Mr. Bethune to be kind enough to step into the back-premises where he could put some samples before him. Maisrie was for remaining where she stood; but her grandfather bade her come along; so she also went with them into the back portion of the establishment, where she was accommodated with a chair. At this table there were no illustrated books to which she could turn; there were only bottles, glasses, corkscrews, and a plateful of wine-biscuits; so that she kept her eyes fixed on the floor--and was forced to listen.
"Claret, Mr. Glover," said the old man, with a certain sententiousness and assumption of importance that he had not displayed in speaking to Lord Musselburgh, "claret was in former days the national drink of Scotland--owing to the close alliance with France, as you know--and the old Scotch families naturally preserve the tradition. So that you can hardly wonder if to one of the name of Bethune a sound claret is scarcely so much a luxury as a necessity. Why, sir, my ancestor, Maximilien de Bethune, duc de Sully, had the finest vineyards in the whole of France; and it was his privilege to furnish the royal table----"