And yet he won't be friendly, do what I will.

As formal as you please--that's pride, I suppose--he's Scotch too, isn't he?
Blarney's no go with him.
Faith, it's like trying to butter short-bread with the thermometer at zero.

By Jove, there he is ahead of us.

Alister, man! Not the ghost of a look will he give me.

He's fine-looking, too, if his hair wasn't so insanely distracted, and his brow ridged and furrowed deep enough to plant potatoes in.