“I didn’t expect you so soon, Mr. Jameson,” she said, rising. The war had altered the Scotswoman: higher pay had clad her in a well-cut skirt, a silk blouse, good boots and stockings; she looked almost comely with her dark hair, just graying, her firm well-moulded features, her keen brown eyes.
“I’ve just been taking the bonded stock,” she went on. “There isn’t much of it, I’m glad to say. Almost everything is sold before arrival now. And the book-debts are low.”
They discussed details; and Peter found himself amazed at her knowledge, her capability.
“Mr. Simpson left a good deal to me at the end,” she explained. “He was ill for nearly three months before he died. But he wouldn’t have you written to about it. Poor Mrs. Simpson! I went to see her yesterday. She was so sorry you couldn’t be home to the funeral. You ought to go and see her if you can.”
A girl brought tea. Over it, Miss Macpherson put her question:
“What are you going to do about the business? Will it have to be sold? You don’t mind my asking, I hope. But it’s rather important to me.”
“I’m afraid it will have to be sold, Miss Macpherson. You know about the partnership deed, I suppose?”
“Yes. Mr. Simpson told me.” She finished her cup. “I could run it, you know—easily—till you came back.”
“Could you?” Her earnestness appealed to Peter. This type of managing woman, bred by the war, was new and very refreshing.
“Of course I could. It’s not a very difficult business.”