"I would, but it might be wrong, Isabel."
"I don't believe it would; anyway I would risk it."
"So would I; but neither of us will be led into the temptation."
"I fear not. Now I will be stepping downstairs. I have no more to say at present and I should not like to miss Robert."
"We are friends again, Isabel?"
"We are aye friends, Christina. Whiles, there is a shadow between us, but it is only a shadow—nothing to it but what a word puts right. There is the lunch bell."
"I had no idea it was so late."
"Let us go down together. I hate the servants to be whispering and snickering anent our little terrivees."
They had scarcely seated themselves at the table when Robert entered the room. He was a typical Scot of his order—tall, blonde, and very erect. His eyes were his most noticeable feature; they were modern eyes with that steely point of electric light in them never seen in the older time. The lids, drawn horizontally over them, spoke for the man's acuteness and dexterity of mind, and perhaps also for his superior cunning. He was arrogant in manner, a trait either inherited or assumed from his mother. In disposition he was kindly disposed to all who had claims on him, but these claims required to be brought to his notice, for he did not voluntarily seek after them. He certainly had humanity of feeling, but of the delicacies and small considerations of life he was very ignorant.
As yet he was commonplace, because nothing had happened to him. He had neither lost money, nor broken down in health, nor been unfairly treated or unjustly blamed. He had never known the want of money, nor the necessity for work; he had lost nothing by death and was only beginning to gain by loving. In the eyes of all who knew him his conduct was blameless. He was very righteous, and a great stickler for morality and all respectable conventions; so much so, that even if he should sin, it would be done with a certain decorum. But spiritually his soul lived in a lane—the narrow lane of a bigoted Calvinism.