He interrupted her with an absolutely charming smile, a deference that was unanswerable.
"And I beg yours for remembering what I should have forgotten. So we are quits and can surely shake hands on it like the good friends we always were, and"--here his voice took on additional charm--"always will be. Of that I am sure."
His bold blue eyes were on hers frankly, and she gave him back his look steadily. So they stood, shapely hand in shapely hand, for a second. Then his left fingers caught at hers and felt the first one inquisitively.
"Hullo, seamstress, that's new?" he queried, evidently pleased with his own cleverness in detection.
Marrion Paul drew her hand away sharply.
"I've been at the dressmaking in Edinbro' these six years since grandfather married," she replied coldly.
Marmaduke looked at Davie Sim incredulously.
"What, Davie! You old reprobate, who the deuce did you get to marry you?"
There was no answer. Possibly Davie did not hear, for he was rootling round the kitchen fire with the poker--a most unnecessary task that sweltering June day. Perhaps, also, it was flame-reflection which made his face show red under the wide Tam o' Shanter bonnet he invariably wore in his own house; why it would be difficult to say, except that outside the precincts of home he was for ever doffing it before somebody or another. For Davie Sims had been born hereditary servitor to the Drummuir family, and had every intention of dying in the same position.
"He married Penelope from the castle," came Marrion's voice relentlessly, "and his lordship gave her away."