The laird stood a little behind and watched him, harking back upon old stories, putting this and that together, and resolving to have a talk with old Grannie.
A minute or two more, and his lordship got up, and proceeded to wash his face and hands, ordering Cosmo about after the things he wanted, as if he had been his valet.
"Richard's himself again!" he said in a would-be jaunty voice, the moment he had finished his toilet, and looked in a crow-cocky kind of a way at the laird.

But the latter thought he saw trouble still underneath the look.
"Now, then, Mr.Warlock, where's this breakfast of yours ?" he said.
"For that, my lord," replied the laird, "I must beg you to come to the kitchen.

The dining-room in this weather would freeze the very marrow of your bones." "And look you! it don't want freezing," said his lordship, with a shudder.

"The kitchen to be sure!--I don't desire a better place.
I'll be hanged if I enter this room again!" he muttered to himself--not too low to be heard.

"My tastes are quite as simple as yours, Mr.Warlock, though I have not had the same opportunity of indulging them." He seemed rapidly returning to the semblance of what he would have called a gentleman.
He rose, and the laird led the way.