"I don't doubt it—in yon house of Belial," retorted Mrs. McBain, presenting a chaste cheek to Nan's salute. The young red lips pressed against the hard-featured face curved into a smile. Nan was no whit in awe of her aunt's bitter tongue, and it was probably for this very reason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her. Most sharp-spoken people appreciate someone who is not afraid to stand up to them, and Nan and Mrs. McBain had crossed swords in many a wordy battle.
"Are you applying the name of Belial to poor old Barry?" enquired Sandy with interest. "I don't consider he's half earned it."
"Barry Seymour's a puir weak fule and canna rule his ain hoose," came the curt answer.
Mrs. McBain habitually spoke as excellent English as only a Scotswoman can, but it pleased her on occasion to assume the Doric—much as a duchess may her tiara.
"Barry's a dear," protested Nan, "and he doesn't need to play at being master in his own house."
"I'm willing to believe you. That red-headed body is mistress and master too."
Sandy grinned.
"I consider that remark eminently personal. The hue of one's hair is a misfortune, not a fault," he submitted teasingly. "In Kitty you must at least allow that the red takes a more pleasing form than it does with me."
Mrs. McBain sniffed.
"You'll be tellin' me next that her hair's the colour God made it," she observed indignantly.