"It won't wear a hole in y'r trousers pockets." Donald Cameron permitted himself the grim humour, believing that he had won the day. "And it won't encourage you to be dicing and drinking at McNab's."
His mother, more sensitive to Davey's state of mind, broke in.
"Oh," she cried, "have no more of this talking now I Sit down and eat your supper, Davey. It'll all be cold."
"Stick to your money!" Davey yelled. "I won't be fed and clothed by you any longer. I'll earn my own living somewhere else." He strode out of the room. His mother heard him go across the flagged floor of the kitchen.
"Go out after him, Donald. Call him back," she urged.
"No," said Cameron slowly.
Davey's defiance was a shock to him. He had ruled his little world autocratically. His will had been law. He had not believed that Davey would dare to resist it.
"If he goes of his own will—let him come back of it," he said.
"Oh, go after him, Donald," she cried. "You've driven him to it, you, with your harshness."
She ran to the door; but already the beat of hoofs was flying up from the misty depths of the trees.