"But you will hardly need it, my dear. Mr. Ewart will make this the one spot on earth for you—and it is right that your future should compensate for your past."
Jamie whistled all day; it got at last on my nerves. When I begged him to stop, he looked at me reproachfully and said never a word, which was unlike Jamie Macleod who has a Scotch tongue—a long and caustic one on occasion.
He steadily refused to say goodby to me, or more than, "I shall see you in Scotland next summer—you and Ewart; give my love to him."
He put his hand from the coach window, and said in a low voice:
"I made such an ass of myself, Marcia, you know how. Forgive me, won't you?"
I forced a smile for answer. There is such a thing as the comedy of irony.
When they drove away, I turned to the empty house—empty except for the dogs—with a sigh of relief. It was good to be alone.
XXXI
The ordering of the house kept me busy the next forenoon, but after dinner I told Cale I was going over to Mère Guillardeau's to tell her about her brother.