"What was the church like?" I inquired at lunch.
"I have witnessed more snappy entertainments," remarked Miss Buncle, the
American girl, through her pretty nose. "Still, we smiled some. Mr
Standish here got quite delirious when the minister prayed for 'the
adjacent country of England, which, as Thou knowest, O Lord, lies some
twa hundred miles to the sooth of us,'--I'm sorry I can't talk Scotch,
Mr Fordyce,--as if he was afraid that Providence might mail the blessing
to the wrong address and Iceland would get it."
Kitty broke in upon Miss Buncle's reminiscences.
"Who do you think we saw in church?" she said. "I nearly forgot to tell
you. Your uncle, Robin--Sir James Fordyce!"
Robin nodded his head in a confirmatory way.
"He is often up here at this time of year," he said.
"He has friends here, perhaps?" said I.
"Oh yes; he has friends."
I could tell from Robin's voice that he was nursing some immense joke,
but he betrayed no inclination to share it with us. Kitty went on.
"He was sitting in a pew with some farmery-looking people. There was a
patriarchal old man, very stately and imposing, rather like--like----"
"Moses?" I suggested.
"No. I don't _think_ Moses was like that."