My room is frightful after my pretty rosy chintzes at Branches. Nasty
yellowish wood furniture, and nothing much matching; however, there are
plenty of wardrobes, so Veronique is content.
They were all in the drawing-room when I got down, and Malcolm, the eldest
son, who is in a Highland militia regiment, had arrived by a seven-o'clock
train.
I had that dreadful feeling of being very late and Mr. Montgomerie wanting
to swear at me, though it was only a minute past a quarter to eight.
He said "Burrrr" several times, and flew off to the dining-room with me
tucked under his arm, murmuring it gave no cook a chance to keep the
dinner waiting. So I expected something wonderful in the way of food, but
it is not half so good as our chef sent up at Branches. And the footmen
are not all the same height, and their liveries don't fit like Mrs.
Carruthers always insisted that ours should do.
Malcolm _is_ a titsy pootsy man. Not as tall as I am, and thin as a rail,
with a look of his knees being too near together. He must be awful in a
kilt, and I am sure he shivers when the wind blows--he has that air. I
don't like kilts--unless men are big, strong, bronzed creatures that don't
seem ashamed of their bare bits. I saw some splendid specimens marching,
once, in Edinburgh, and they swung their skirts just like the beautiful
ladies in the Bois, when mademoiselle and I went out of the Allee Mrs.
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