Mrs Douglas followed, and the sound of the dinner bell put a stop to the dispute.

“Come, my leddie, we’ll see how the dinner’s dressed,” said the Laird, as he seized Lady Maclaughlan by the tip of the finger, and holding it up aloft, they marched into the dining room.

“Permit me, my Lady Juliana Douglas,” said the little Baronet, with much difficulty hobbling towards her, and attempting to take her hand.  “Come, Harry, love; here, Cupid,” cried she; and without noticing the enraged Sir Sampson, she passed on, humming a tune, and leaning upon her husband.

“Astonishing! perfectly astonishing!” exclaimed the Baronet; “how a young woman of Lady Juliana’s rank and fashion should be guilty of such a solecism in good breeding.”

“She is very young,” said Mrs. Douglas, smiling, as he limped along with her, “and you must make allowances for her; but, indeed, I think her beauty must ever be a sufficient excuse for any little errors she may commit with a person of such taste and gallantry as Sir Sampson Maclaughlan.”

The little Baronet smiled, pressed the hand he held; and, soothed by the well-timed compliment, he seated himself next to Lady Juliana with some complacency.  As she insisted on having her husband on the other side of her, Mr. Douglas was condemned to take his station by the hated Lady Maclaughlan, who, for the first time observing Mrs. Douglas, called to her—­

“Come here, my love; I haven’t seen you these hundred years;” then seizing her face between her hands, she saluted her in the usual style.  “There,” at length releasing Mrs Douglas from her gripe—­“there’s for you!  I love you very much; you’re neither a fool nor a hoyden; you’re a fine intelligent being.”

Having carefully rolled up and deposited her gloves in her pocket, she pulled out a pin-cushion, and calling Miss Bella, desired her to pin her napkin over her shoulders; which done, she began to devour her soup in silence.

Peace was, however, of short duration.  Old Donald, in removing a dish of whipt cream, unfortunately overturned one upon Lady Maclaughlan’s pompadour satin petticoat—­the only part of her dress that was unprotected.

“Do you see what you have done, you old Donald, you?” cried she, seizing the culprit by the sleeve; “why, you’ve got St. Vitus’s dance.  A fit hand to carry whipt cream, to be sure!  Why, I could as well carry a custard on the point of a bayonet—­humph!”

“Dear me, Donald, how could you be so senseless?” cried Miss Jacky.

“Preserve me, Donald, I thought you had more sense!” squeaked Miss Nicky.

“I am sure, Donald, that was na like you!” said Miss Grizzy, as the friends all flocked around the petticoat, each suggesting a different remedy.

“It’s all of you, girls, that his has happened.  Why can’t you have a larger tablecloth upon your table!  And that old man has the palsy.  Why don’t you electrify him?’ in a tone admirably calculated to have that effect.