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He laughed, in spite of himself, but he still held my hand. "Describe their types to me, that I may see which I should be," he said, with great seriousness. "There is the Mackintosh kind humble and 'titsy pootsy, and a sort of under-nurse," I said. "That is not my size, I fear." "Then there is the Montgomerie selfish and bullying, and near about money." "But I am not Scotch."
And the footmen are not all the same height, and their liveries don't fit like Mrs. Carruthers always insisted that ours should do. Malcolm is a titsy pootsy man. Not as tall as I am, and thin as a rail, with a look of his knees being too near together. He must be awful in a kilt, and I am sure he shivers when the wind blows he has that air.
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