“Take out a stick and give me one.  What for did I have false teeth put in at great expense if it was not that I might eat rock with my Nelly?  I’ll take a bit of the peppermint.  My wife is a leddy and will not let me eat peppermint in my ain hoose.”  He always spoke to Ellen, he did not know why, in the same rough, soft, broad Scots tongue that he had talked with his mother and father when he was a wee boy in the carter’s cottage on the Lang Whang of the Old Lanark Road, that he still talked to his cat in his little study at the back of his square, decent residence.  “Ay, that’s right.  But lassie, what ails ye?  You’re looking at the box as though you’d taken a turn at the genteel and become an Episcopalian and it was Lent.  If you’ve lost that fine sweet tooth of yours ye must be sickening for something.”

“Och, me.  I’m all right,” said Ellen drearily, and picked a ginger stick, and bit it joylessly; and laid it down again, and pressed her hand to her heart.  She hearkened to the racing beat of her agony with eyes grown remote and lips drawn down at the corner with disgust, like a woman feeling the movements of an unwanted child.  And Mr. Mactavish James, was so wrung with pity for the wee thing, and the mature dignity with which she wore her misery, and the next moment so glowing with pleasure at himself for this generous emotion, that he beamed on her and purred silently, “Ech, the poor bairn!  I will go straight to the point and make her mind easy.”  He wriggled into an easier position in his chair, readjusted his glasses, and settled down to enjoy this pleasant occupation of lifting the lid off her distress, stirring it up, and distilling from it and the drying juices of his heart more of this creditable pity.

“Nelly,” he said jocosely, “I’ve been hearing tales about you.”

She answered, “I know it.  Mr. Philip has told me.”

“Ay, I thought he would,” said Mr. Mactavish James comfortably.  He could also make a pretty good guess at the temper his son Philip had put into the telling.  For he was an old man, and knew that a young man in love may not be the quiet, religious lover pondering how a minute’s kissing under the moon can sanctify all the next day’s daylight that the poets describe him.  He may be inflamed out of youth’s semblance by jealousy, and decide that since he has no claws to tear the female flesh as it deserves, he will do what he can with cruel words and treachery.  It is just luck, the kind of man one happens to be born.  Well, it was just luck....

“He’s tremendous excited about seeing you and Mr. Yaverland, Nelly.”

Her eyes were blue fire.  “Och, ’twas him that saw me!  He said it was a client.”