“I canna’ live in a sty.”
It was a deadlock, till he demanded angrily where she expected to get money for the journey. At her answer he surrendered. It fairly took the life out of him. She certainly had not expected to get it from him, thank you! She knew him too well. She had money enough with her to take her comfortably to her home in Glasgow. Did he suppose that she was one to come to the wilds without knowing how she might get back? She had kept it all—all that gold, mind you!—in the lining of her muff.
That woman had come thinking she might not stay! He, Alex McNair, had been, as it were, married on probation. And him a Presbyterian!
He asked hopelessly what kind of a house she wanted.
She replied promptly that she wanted three good big rooms downstairs, and two upstairs, a wee porch, all painted white, except the green shutters, with closets and windows like Chirstie’s and besides a wee white house for the fowls. All this was to be bought to-day, at once.
The Lord preserve us! Why, there wasn’t a painted fowl house in the state!
The train left for Glasgow at seven the night.
He couldn’t buy all that in a day, could he? He had no money!
He could sell the last great plot he had bought.
Was she daft? Did she suppose he could sell it in a day?