“What would ye think might come of it?”
“I don't know, Wallace—what would you!”
“Weel,” he said gravely, “I think something's brewing down yonder—there'll be trouble yet.”
“Those poor Balkans, always fighting,” she sighed.
“I'm feered it'll be more than the Balkans this time. Watch the papers, Mary—I dinna' like the looks o' it mesel'.”
They talked on, he expounding his views on the menace of Austria's near-east aspirations as opposed to Russia's friendship for the Slavic races. Mary tried to listen intelligently—the effort brought a little color to her face.
“Wallace,” she said presently, “do you happen to know where Miss Berber is this summer?”
“I do not,” he said, his blue eyes steadily watching her. “But Mrs. Elliot would ken maybe—ye might ask her.”
“Oh, it doesn't matter,” said Mary. “I just wondered.”
When McEwan had gone Mary read Miss Mason's letter for the third time, and again the cold touch of fear assailed her. She took a camp stool and sat by the edge of the bluff for a long time, watching the water. Then she went indoors again to her desk.