“Will it be long now?”
“We’ll be into North Adams in less than an hour.”
“I’m afraid you didn’t get any sleep at all,” said Ruth, observing that his eyes looked tired.
“Do I look as badly as that?” he parried. “Never mind, wait until we reach Fir Tree Farm and I’ve had a mug of hot Scotch.”
“What’s hot Scotch?”
“It’s something that no one would think of drinking at any time except the Christmas holiday—and the only thing that it seems quite correct to drink on a Christmas holiday, especially in a country house. It’s hot, and sweet and full of Captain Kidd’s own brand of rum, and spice, and—oh, ever so many things. You’ll see.”
“Perhaps Gloria won’t let me drink it,” said Ruth.
“Don’t ask her—from now on you must ask me—and if I say you may, it’s all right.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t I tucked you in and watched over you like a mother?” said Terry. “That gives me the right to say yes and no about things. I shall explain my new position just as soon as the stately Gloria steps off the train.”