Anne walked away to the window, in undisguised disgust.  Arnold found Mr. Bishopriggs to be quite irresistible.  He answered, humoring the joke,

“One at the top and one at the bottom of the table, I suppose?”

“One at tap and one at bottom?” repeated Mr. Bishopriggs, in high disdain.  “De’il a bit of it!  Baith yer chairs as close together as chairs can be.  Hech! hech!—­haven’t I caught ’em, after goodness knows hoo many preleeminary knocks at the door, dining on their husbands’ knees, and steemulating a man’s appetite by feeding him at the fork’s end like a child?  Eh!” sighed the sage of Craig Fernie, “it’s a short life wi’ that nuptial business, and a merry one!  A mouth for yer billin’ and cooin’; and a’ the rest o’ yer days for wondering ye were ever such a fule, and wishing it was a’ to be done ower again.—­Ye’ll be for a bottle o’ sherry wine, nae doot? and a drap toddy afterwards, to do yer digestin’ on?”

Arnold nodded—­and then, in obedience to a signal from Anne, joined her at the window.  Mr. Bishopriggs looked after them attentively—­observed that they were talking in whispers—­and approved of that proceeding, as representing another of the established customs of young married couples at inns, in the presence of third persons appointed to wait on them.

“Ay! ay!” he said, looking over his shoulder at Arnold, “gae to your deerie! gae to your deerie! and leave a’ the solid business o’ life to Me.  Ye’ve Screepture warrant for it.  A man maun leave fether and mother (I’m yer fether), and cleave to his wife.  My certie! ‘cleave’ is a strong word—­there’s nae sort o’ doot aboot it, when it comes to ‘cleaving!’” He wagged his head thoughtfully, and walked to the side-table in a corner, to cut the bread.

As he took up the knife, his one wary eye detected a morsel of crumpled paper, lying lost between the table and the wall.  It was the letter from Geoffrey, which Anne had flung from her, in the first indignation of reading it—­and which neither she nor Arnold had thought of since.

“What’s that I see yonder?” muttered Mr. Bishopriggs, under his breath.  “Mair litter in the room, after I’ve doosted and tidied it wi’ my ain hands!”

He picked up the crumpled paper, and partly opened it.  “Eh! what’s here?  Writing on it in ink? and writing on it in pencil?  Who may this belong to?” He looked round cautiously toward Arnold and Anne.  They were both still talking in whispers, and both standing with their backs to him, looking out of the window.  “Here it is, clean forgotten and dune with!” thought Mr. Bishopriggs.  “Noo what would a fule do, if he fund this?  A fule wad light his pipe wi’ it, and then wonder whether he wadna ha’ dune better to read it first.  And what wad a wise man do, in a seemilar position?” He practically answered that question by putting the letter into his pocket.  It might be worth keeping, or it might not; five minutes’ private examination of it would decide the alternative, at the first convenient opportunity.  “Am gaun’ to breeng the dinner in!” he called out to Arnold.  “And, mind ye, there’s nae knocking at the door possible, when I’ve got the tray in baith my hands, and mairs the pity, the gout in baith my feet.”  With that friendly warning, Mr. Bishopriggs went his way to the regions of the kitchen.