He stood on his own heath, or by his own
fountain, but his neck had in it a deferential crook. Lacs--rupees--
factories--rajahs--ships--cottons--the words fell like the tinkle of a
golden fountain. Listening to these two stood, with his hands behind
his back, Mr. Wotherspoon, Black Hill's lawyer and man of business
down from Edinburgh. At a little distance Mrs. Alison showed her roses
to the wife of the East India man and to a kinsman, Mr. Munro Touris,
from Inverness way.
Mr. Touris addressed himself with his careful smile to Alexander.
"Good day, Glenfernie! This, Mr. Goodworth, is a good neighbor of
mine, Mr. Jardine of Glenfernie. Alexander, Mr. Goodworth is art and
part of the East India. You have met Mr. Wotherspoon before, I think?
There are Alison and Mrs. Goodworth and Munro Touris by the roses."
Glenfernie went over to the roses. Mrs. Alison, smiling upon him,
presented him to Mrs. Goodworth, a dark, bright, black-eyed, talkative
lady. He and Munro Touris nodded to each other. The laird of Black
Hill, the India merchant, and the lawyer now joined them, and all
strolled together along the very wide and straight graveled path. The
talk was chiefly upheld by Black Hill and the great trader, with the
lawyer putting in now and again a shrewd word, and the trader's wife
making aside to Mrs. Alison an embroidery of comment.
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