"Speak lower," replied my mother, with an uneasy look at me.
"Pooh!" said James contemptuously, "that kail-runtle!"
"I winna have him miscalled," said my mother, frowning.
"I am done with him," said James (wiping his cane with his cambric handkerchief), and his sword clattered deliciously (I cannot think this was accidental), which made my mother sigh. Like the man he was, he followed up his advantage with a comparison that made me dip viciously.
"A prettier sound that," said he, clanking his sword again, "than the clack-clack of your young friend's shuttle."
"Whist!" cried my mother, who had seen me dip.
"Then give me your arm," said James, lowering his voice.
"I dare not," answered my mother. "He's so touchy about you."
"Come, come," he pressed her, "you are certain to do it sooner or later, so why not now?"
"Wait till he has gone for his walk," said my mother; "and, forby that, I'm ower old to dance with you."
"How old are you?" he inquired.
"You're gey an' pert!" cried my mother.
"Are you seventy?"
