Next morning Mrs. Mackenzie accorded her solicitor an interview within the gloomy precincts of the library. The lady came to the point at once, and with as much force and precision as Malony made use of when beating a red-hot horse-shoe.
"My daughter is going to be married, Mr. Dawson," she said.
Dawson bowed and smiled.
But Mrs. Mackenzie brought him up with a round turn.
"No palaver, Mr. Dawson, please," she jerked out. "My daughter is going to be married. She did me the courtesy of asking my leave—a mere matter of friendly formality, of course. She is going to marry a Morgan. The Morgans are Welsh. I don't like the Welsh; they are mere business people. I don't like that. I believe a daughter of mine might have married a lord. N'importe; it is no fault of mine. But, Mr. Dawson, these Morgans are said to be wealthy Welsh. Well, my estate is my own, is it not?"
"To have and to hold, my dear lady; to do absolutely what you please with."
"Well, Mr. Dawson, I can leave all to my dear boy if he continues to love and obey his mother as he does now; but I come of a very independent family, and, if I choose, I can leave my riches to build an hospital, or, what is even more needed, a new ship of war. Now, sir, make out a cheque for £5,000 to my daughter, and I will sign it. Write also a letter, couched in friendly but not too friendly terms, to accompany this cheque. I want my daughter, or rather the Morgans, to understand that there is a gulf fixed between the mansion-house of Drumglen and their shop in Glasgow."
And Mr. Dawson had obeyed her orders to the very letter.
He had, however, always since then managed to keep on the very best terms with the Morgans, as well as with Mrs. Mackenzie herself.
* * * * *