"Give Aunt Jean my love, and tell her I can't come just now. Later, perhaps----"
"Later! Heaven only knows where we may be later. Your aunt talks of some seaside place on the Brittany or Normandy coast--some God-forsaken hole, where a man can't get a decent meal of meat. Gad, what it is to be hard-up! Well, and if you won't come to us may I ask without impertinence where you do propose to go?"
"Back to the Lodge at Creagh for a few days at least."
"And after the few days--eh, what?" asked Sir Tom, leaning forward a little, with serious concern in his big, kindly, rather innocent blue eyes.
She made no answer, though Malcolm from where he stood leaning against the fireplace seemed to wait a little eagerly for what she might say.
"Speak to her, Malcolm! She has aye been a high-handed miss, doing that which seemed right in her own eyes. You are the head of the house now. Can't you put your foot down and bid her come with me to your aunt and your cousins? It's where she ought to be in these days, among a lot of kindly, busy women-folk."
"It's what I think, Uncle Tom," said Malcolm in a low voice. "But, as you say, nobody can dictate to Isla. She will go her own way."
"Then, may I ask what you propose to do?" asked Uncle Tom, suddenly directing his attention to his nephew. "Of course, for a few days or weeks there will be things to see to. But, with Cattanach at your back, they should not take very long to wind up. And with the American folk coming back to Achree there's nothing for you to do here. I don't suppose you'll be long content, hanging about the Lodge and the Moor of Creagh."
Malcolm had no answer for a moment, and the silence seemed to grow.
"Why can't you speak--one of you?" asked Uncle Tom a trifle testily. "I like folks to show some common-sense, and you have both seen this coming for long enough. It's not to be thought that you haven't had plans for the future."