“Dear knows,” returned his father briefly. “Lizzie, can ye no’ gi’e Macgreegor a cup o’ tea?”
Lizzie lifted the cosy from the brown teapot. “Where did ye get the razor, Macgreegor?”
“He hasna got a razor, Maw,” said Jimsie. “He does it wi’ a wee knife.”
“Shurrup!” Macgreegor growled, whereupon Jimsie choked and his eyes filled with tears.
“Macgreegor,” said his mother, “that’s no’ the way to speak to yer wee brither.”
“Macgreegor,” said his sister, “I’ll mak’ ye a bit o’ hot toast, if ye like.”
“Ay, Jeannie,” said John quickly, “mak’ him a bit o’ hot toast, an’ I’ll look after Jimsie.” He turned the conversation to the subject of a great vessel that had been launched into the Clyde that morning.
Sullenly Macgregor took the cup from his mother’s hand and forthwith devoted his attention to his meal. Seldom had resentment taken such possession of his soul. Another word from his mother or Jimsie, and he would have retorted violently and flung out of the room. The mild intervention of his sister and father had saved a scene. Though his face cooled, his heart remained hot; though hungry, he ate little, including the freshly made toast, which he accepted with a gracelessness that probably shamed him even more than it hurt Jeannie. Poor sensitive, sulky youth!—a hedge-hog with its skin turned outside-in could not suffer more.
For the first time in the course of his married life John Robinson really doubted Lizzie’s discretion. It was with much diffidence, however, that he referred to the matter after Macgregor had gone out, and while Jeannie was superintending Jimsie’s going to bed.
“Lizzie,” he began, eyeing his cold pipe, “did ye happen to notice that Macgreegor was a wee thing offended the nicht?”