"If I did speak, would it prevent your doing what you've made up your mind to do?"
"Perhaps not, unless your reasons appealed to my judgment," Somerled admitted.
"You're no prevaricator, anyhow."
"I don't come of prevaricating stock."
"You don't, if you're David MacDonald's son. He was a humble, God-respecting man. But you have no humble air. You hold your crest high."
Somerled was minded to be impudent and say that in that case he must get his hair cut; but he refrained. "The atmosphere of this house does not conduce to humility, madam," he answered instead—and always as they talked the two looked one another straight and full in the face.
"H'm!" the old woman grunted. Yet there was something vaguely resembling a twinkle in the glass-gray eyes, a gleam which Barrie and few others now living had ever seen; for not more than one or two of her fellow-beings had ever had the slightest idea how to manage Mrs. MacDonald, née Ann (scorning an "e") Hillard.
"Go on your motor trip, then, so far as I care," said she, a permission which from her was well-nigh a blessing. "It will probably end in a smash-up before Edinburgh."
"I think not," said Somerled. "I drive myself, and I know how to drive rather well."
"I was not referring to physical results."