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Updated: June 20, 2025
In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift.
There was a chorus of approval round the Dobsons' breakfast-table. Lady Whigham's concert went off with great eclat. It was attended by many ladies, of whom one was a dowager countess, but there were also a bishop and a midshipman. The last had a bad cold and kept on blowing his nose during the performance of the soprano, a lady of strange appearance, said to be a Serbian refugee of noble origin.
"I think perhaps you are right, Maud. The War does make such a difference, doesn't it? I really think I shall encourage it now that he has made a position for himself." Mrs. Dobson was interrupted by the return of Joan with another piece of news. "Oh, mamma," she said, more breathlessly than ever, "Lady Whigham's going to give a concert for poor artists, and she wants us to give one, too!
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