“And Norman will know all this.”
“Ay, will he! Norman is a wonderfu’ man, for a’ perteening to his duty.”
Then the door opened, and one of the Brodie boys gave Christine two letters. “I thought ye wad be glad o’ them this gloomy day,” he said to Christine.
“Thank you, Alick! You went a bit out o’ your road to pleasure us.”
“That’s naething. Gude morning! I am in a wee hurry, there’s a big game in the playground this afternoon.” With these words the boy was gone, and Christine stood with the letters in her hand. One was from Cluny, and she put it in her breast, the other was from Roberta, and she read it aloud to her mother. It was dated New Orleans, and the first pages of the letter consisted entirely of a description of the place and her perfect delight in its climate and social life.
Margot listened impatiently. “I’m no carin’ for 282 that information, Christine,” she said. “Why is Roberta in New Orleans? What is she doing in a foreign land, and nae word o’ Neil in the circumstance.”
“I am just coming to that, Mither.” Then Christine read carefully Roberta’s long accusation of her husband’s methods. Margot listened silently, and when Christine ceased reading, did not express any opinion.
“What do ye think, Mither?”
“I’ll hae to hear Neil’s side, before I can judge. When she was here, she said naething against Neil.”
“She did not name him at all. I noticed that.”