She knew that there was trouble ahead for Davey. What it was she could only imagine; every fibre of her being ached to know. She hurried Jenny on with the dinner so that his father's inner man would be warmed and comforted before Davey arrived.
He was an hour or two later than they were.
When he came into the kitchen she went up to him and put her arms round him.
"Whatever you do, don't cross your father, Davey dear," she said. "He's in a queer temper to-night."
Davey looked at her stupidly. He threw off his hat and brushed his hand across his forehead.
"Right, mother," he said slowly.
His voice was thick. She smelt the whisky on his breath as he turned into the next room.
Hurrying backwards and forwards from the fire to the table, lifting the dinner she had kept warm for him by the fire, she did not hear the first words of the storm that was brewing in the inner room. Lifting the tray she carried it in, but on the threshold she stood still, her heart cold at the sight of her husband and son.
They were facing each other, all the antagonism that had been latent for months, between them, ablaze in their eyes, betrayed by every line of their passion-white faces. She put her tray on the table.
Donald Cameron had a packet of papers in his hand. The torn envelope he had taken them from lay on the floor.