The apartment—it was the upper floor of the building, above the Thai Restaurant they hadn't succeeded in visiting that evening—wasn't the kind of place MacFarlane expected to be the home of the Queen of Curry, which fact shows that despite his travels in Time and Space or Space/Time, he was at base a 13th Century Highlander, whose World View was one seen from the perspective of an isolated round-house, set in a blasted heath above a remote glen where, though taught Latin and Greek, French and German, by tutors, sophistication was still believed to be the rule of the fist in any altercation and law was dispensed by the Clan Chief, not any black-coated judge from Edinburgh, but "no," in answer to her question, he assured Ruby—with a chuckle, sipping Laphraoigh from a crystal glass, that he acknowledged as his favourite malt—that he did not go around saying 'arr', like a comic-book pirate, "though we do say 'och' and 'whit fur?' and occasionally 'wheesht!' and although I ask a lot of wh-questions, that's because they avoid yes/no answers which can close down a conversation—or an interrogation—faster than the sun melts snaw aff a dyke, so who is the unicorn? oh, Gerald, where is he tonight? okay, okay, none of my business, and it's appreciable that you have the right, and the desire, to a private life, which can't be easy when you are so well-known in, what is, after all, just a small town, oh, see, hear: where, which, when, what, just tripped off my tongue, once that kind of thing has been instilled, it's hard to break the habit, just second-nature really, so how about if I defer to your questions?"