"What did he say to that?" I asked.

"Oh, he said, `Quite so, quite so'; that was his invariable response
to all my witticisms. Then when I told him casually that the shops
looked very small and dark and stuffy here, and that there were not
as many tartans and plaids in the windows as we had expected, he
remarked that as to the latter point, the American season had not
opened yet! Presently he asserted that no royal city in Europe
could boast ten centuries of such glorious and stirring history as
Edinburgh. I said it did not appear to be stirring much at present,
and that everything in Scotland seemed a little slow to an American;
that he could have no idea of push or enterprise until he visited a
city like Chicago. He retorted that, happily, Edinburgh was
peculiarly free from the taint of the ledger and the counting-house;
that it was Weimar without a Goethe, Boston without its twang!"

"Incredible!" cried Salemina, deeply wounded in her local pride.
"He never could have said `twang' unless you had tried him beyond
measure!"

"I dare say I did; he is easily tried," returned Francesca. "I
asked him, sarcastically, if he had ever been in Boston. `No,' he
said, `it is not necessary to GO there! And while we are discussing
these matters,' he went on, `how is your American dyspepsia these
days,--have you decided what is the cause of it?'

"'Yes, we have,' said I, as quick as a flash; `we have always taken
in more foreigners than we could assimilate!' I wanted to tell him
that one Scotsman of his type would upset the national digestion
anywhere, but I restrained myself."