“Old Dog Tray!” he thought. “That’s how she sees it, eh?”
It rankled; it galled.
He conducted himself as usual. He played “red rover” with the children, dodging miraculously, lean, solemn, dignified even in his agility. He sat down to tea on the veranda, and when offered a slice of lemon he asked little Rose, according to precedent:
“Now do you think it would do more good to my complexion than harm to my disposition?”
There was his customary plate of buttered toast, and he ate three slices, as usual. No one but Gina, who knew him so well, would have suspected that he was hurt and angry.
She knew, though, that the only way to deal with Murchison was by rough outspokenness. He both dreaded and adored plain speaking. He was never happy until a thing was made clear and explicit, yet he shied away from any attempt at intimacy. He had, so to speak, to be seized by the neck and forced to listen.
She waited until the children were all in bed, and they had the sitting room to themselves, before she tackled him.
“Robert,” she said, “I suppose you heard the silly thing Roddy said?”
“Aye!” said he, and at once began to sheer off. “Roddy’s getting to be—”
“I’m sorry you heard it,” she said gently. “It was just my own little name for you, and I wanted to keep it to myself.”