Arnold continued his conversation with Anne in terms which showed that the question of his leaving the inn had been the question once more discussed between them while they were standing at the window.

“You see we can’t help it,” he said.  “The waiter has gone to bring the dinner in.  What will they think in the house, if I go away already, and leave ‘my wife’ to dine alone?”

It was so plainly necessary to keep up appearances for the present, that there was nothing more to be said.  Arnold was committing a serious imprudence—­and yet, on this occasion, Arnold was right.  Anne’s annoyance at feeling that conclusion forced on her produced the first betrayal of impatience which she had shown yet.  She left Arnold at the window, and flung herself on the sofa.  “A curse seems to follow me!” she thought, bitterly.  “This will end ill—­and I shall be answerable for it!”

In the mean time Mr. Bishopriggs had found the dinner in the kitchen, ready, and waiting for him.  Instead of at once taking the tray on which it was placed into the sitting-room, he conveyed it privately into his own pantry, and shut the door.

“Lie ye there, my freend, till the spare moment comes—­and I’ll look at ye again,” he said, putting the letter away carefully in the dresser-drawer.  “Noo aboot the dinner o’ they twa turtle-doves in the parlor?” he continued, directing his attention to the dinner tray.  “I maun joost see that the cook’s ‘s dune her duty—­the creatures are no’ capable o’ decidin’ that knotty point for their ain selves.”  He took off one of the covers, and picked bits, here and there, out of the dish with the fork, “Eh! eh! the collops are no’ that bad!” He took off another cover, and shook his head in solemn doubt.  “Here’s the green meat.  I doot green meat’s windy diet for a man at my time o’ life!” He put the cover on again, and tried the next dish.  “The fesh?  What the de’il does the woman fry the trout for?  Boil it next time, ye betch, wi’ a pinch o’ saut and a spunefu’ o’ vinegar.”  He drew the cork from a bottle of sherry, and decanted the wine.  “The sherry wine?” he said, in tones of deep feeling, holding the decanter up to the light.  “Hoo do I know but what it may be corkit?  I maun taste and try.  It’s on my conscience, as an honest man, to taste and try.”  He forthwith relieved his conscience—­copiously.  There was a vacant space, of no inconsiderable dimensions, left in the decanter.  Mr. Bishopriggs gravely filled it up from the water-bottle.  “Eh! it’s joost addin’ ten years to the age o’ the wine.  The turtle-doves will be nane the waur—­and I mysel’ am a glass o’ sherry the better.  Praise Providence for a’ its maircies!” Having relieved himself of that devout aspiration, he took up the tray again, and decided on letting the turtle-doves have their dinner.

The conversation in the parlor (dropped for the moment) had been renewed, in the absence of Mr. Bishopriggs.  Too restless to remain long in one place, Anne had risen again from the sofa, and had rejoined Arnold at the window.