"And who are the others?" I asked unsteadily; my lips trembled in spite of myself.
"The others? Oh—," he seemed to come back to us from afar, "there is André—"
"And who is André?"
"Just André—none such in the wide world; my guide's old father, old Mère Guillardeau's brother, old French voyageur and coureur de bois; it will take another evening to tell you of André.— Mother," he spoke abruptly, "it's time for porridge and Cale."
"Yes, I will speak to Marie." She rose and left the room by a door at the farther end.
"Remark those fourteen candles, will you?" said Jamie, between puffs.
"I have noticed them; I call that a downright extravagance."
"I pay for it," he said sententiously; then, with a slight flash of resentment; "you need n't think I sponge on Ewart to the extent of fourteen candles a night."
I laughed a little under my breath. I knew a little friction would do him no harm.
"And when those fourteen candles burn to within two inches of the socket, as at present, it is my invariable custom, being a Scotsman, to call for the porridge—and for Cale, because he is of our tongue, and needs to discourse with his own, at least once, before going to bed. I say a Scotsman without his nine o'clock porridge is a cad."