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Updated: June 28, 2025
Superficially, training is everything. The heaven-born genius comes once in a century of decades to remind us, as it were, that there is such a thing as creation; but beyond the heaven-born genius, training, on a day of superficialities, must win. This moment, when Sally stood but a few paces within Traill's room, and looked half-appealing, half-guardedly at Mrs.
This grill-room of Traill's place was more like the parlor of a country inn, or a farm-house kitchen if there had been a built-in bed or two, than a restaurant in the city. There, a humble man might see his herring toasted, his bannocks baked on the oven-top, or his tea brewed to his liking.
From the instant that she knew there was another woman in Traill's life and it needed even less than instinct to show her that this girl was trying to steal him from her the whole flame of jealousy licked her with a burning tongue. Quiet, sensitive, tender-hearted little Sally Bishop blazed into a furnace of emotion.
After all, it seemed best that he should go first to Barbara Traill's. She would give him a cup of tea, and while he drank it he could send one of Glumm's little lads with a message to Nanna. There was nothing of cowardice in this determination; it was rather that access of reverential love which, as it draws nearer, puts its own desire and will at the feet of the beloved one.
Sally sat with her hand wrapped in Traill's, giving vent to a thousand expressions of delight, drawing his sudden attention to the thousand things that pleased her eye the faint wash of green from the buds upon the hedgerows, the bright clusters of primroses that struck light through the shadows in the wood, forcing life through the thick carpet of dead leaves that the trees had given back to earth.
"You had a good dinner, Monsieur?" "Excellent, thank you, Madame." "Oh, Monsieur;" she caught Traill's arm and detained him as Sally went out in front. "Oh monsieur elle est charmante!" Her eyes lifted and her hands carried the words upwards to heaven, if need be. Traill threw back his head and laughed. "Madame vous etes trop romanesque pour ce monde." "Ah, non, Monsieur je suis ce que je suis.
She looked at him with increasing amazement. "Some time ago yes perhaps. But not now?" "Yes, now. I know it for a fact. They hit it off admirably." Hit it off Traill's very words! Then it was a lie. A lie of Mrs. Durlacher's that day when they were down at Apsley, a lie to win his sympathy at a moment when she had all but lost it.
He was filled with a fierce championship of the wee Highlander, whose loyalty to that dead master had brought him to this strait. To the magistrate Mr. Traill's tossed-up head had the effect of defiance, and brought a sharp rebuke. "Don't split hairs, Mr. Traill. You are wasting the time of the court. You admit feeding the dog. Who is his master and where does he sleep?"
"Taking the little lady out, I suppose?" "No, she's upstairs." The man's eyes passed across Traill's face as they wandered to the portrait of James Brownrigg over the mantelpiece. "Well, I'm at a loose end," he said. He took a gold cigarette-case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette.
Traill's place at two o'clock the landlord stood in shirt-sleeves and apron in the open doorway with Bobby, the little dog gripping a mutton shank in his mouth. "Bobby must tak' his bone down first and hide it awa'. The Sabbath in a kirkyard is a dull day for a wee dog, so he aye gets a catechism of a bone to mumble over."
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