Sandy and Nan broke into laughter.
"Well, mine is, anyway," said the former. "It would never have been this colour if I'd had a say in the matter."
Eliza surveyed her offspring with disfavour.
"It's an ill thing, Sandy McBain, to question the ways of the Almighty who made you."
"I don't. It's you who seem far more disposed to disparage the completed article than I." He beamed at her seraphically.
Eliza's thin lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. Sandy was as equally the joy of her heart as he was the flagellation of her conscience.
"Well, I'll own you're the first of the McBains to go daft over music."
She handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke. Then asked;
"And how's your uncle, St. John?"
"He's at Mallow, too. We all are—Penelope and Uncle David, and Ralph
Fenton—"