In the rhododendron
thickets sparse blooms still remained, and all along by the stream-side
stood stately lines of yellow iris above the white water-ranunculus.
The girl was sensitive to moods of season and weather, and she had
almost laughed at the incongruity of the two of them in modern clothes
in this fit setting for an old tale. Dickon of Glenavelin, the sworn
foe of the Lord of Etterick, on such nights as this had ridden up the
water with his bands to affront the quiet moonlight. And now his
descendant was pointing out dim shapes in the park which he said were
prize cattle.
"Whew! what a weariness is civilization!" said the man, with comical
eyes. "We have been making talk with difficulty all the evening which
serves no purpose in the world. Upon my word, my kyloes have the best
of the bargain. And in a month or so there will be the election and I
shall have to go and rave--there is no other word for it, Miss
Wishart--rave on behalf of some fool or other, and talk Radicalism which
would make your friend Dickon turn in his grave, and be in earnest for
weeks when I know in the bottom of my heart that I am a humbug and care
for none of these things. How lightly politics and such matters sit on
us all!"
"But you know you are talking nonsense," said the serious Alice. "After
all, these things are the most important, for they mean duty and courage
and--and--all that sort of thing.
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