Her parasol leans beside her. Writing-materials are on the table
before her, and a small fan, for it is hot weather; also a dish of
peaches. Sunlight suffuses the tent interior, softening the round contours
of the face, and caressing pleasantly the small plump hand busy at
letter-writing. The even flow of her penmanship is suddenly disturbed;
picking up her parasol, she indulgently beats some unseen object, lying
concealed against her skirts_.
QUEEN. No: don't scratch! Naughty! Naughty!
(_She then picks up a hand-bell, rings it, and continues her writing.
Presently a fine figure of a man in Highland costume appears in the
tent-door. He waits awhile, then speaks in the strong Doric of his native
wilds_.)
MR. J. BROWN. Was your Majesty wanting anything, or were you ringing only
for the fun?
(_To this brusque delivery her Majesty responds with a cosy smile, for
the special function of Mr. John Brown is not to be a courtier; and,
knowing what is expected of him, he lives up to it_.)
QUEEN. Bring another chair, Brown. And take Mop with you: he wants his
walk.
MR. J.B. What kind of a chair are you wanting, Ma'am? Is it to put your
feet on?
QUEEN. No, no. It is to put a visitor on. Choose a nice one with a
lean-back.
MR. J.B. With a lean back? Ho! Ye mean one that you can lean back in. What
talk folk will bring with them from up south, to be sure! Yes, I'll get it
for ye, Ma'am. Come, Mop, be a braw little wee mon, and tak' your walk!
(_And while his Royal Mistress resumes her writing, taking Mop by his
"lead" he prepares for departure.
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