"Oh, did n't you! Where are your wisdom teeth? Live and learn, Marcia."
"Quits, Jamie." He chuckled.
"Honestly, Marcia, I could n't answer you in any other way. Ewart has never opened his lips to me about his intimate personal life; he has no need to—for, of course, there is a great difference in our ages even if he is such a companion. And then, you know, I only saw him that one week in Crieff when he was with us, and I was a little chap—it was just after father left us—and he was no end good to me. And the second time was this year in June when he stayed a week here and then took me up to André. He was with us a month in camp; that is where I came to know him so well. He 's an Oxford man, and that's what I was aiming at when—when my health funked. He seems to understand how hard it is to me to give it all up. I don't object to telling you it was Doctor Rugvie who was going to put me through."
"Oh, Jamie!" It was all I could say, for I had known during our few weeks of an intimacy, which circumstances warranted, that some great disappointment had been his—wholly apart from his being handicapped by his inheritance.
"About Ewart," he went on; "you know a village is a village, and a dish of gossip is meat and drink for all alike. It's only a rumor anyway, but it crops out at odd times and in the queerest places that he was married and divorced, and that he has a son living whom he is educating in Europe. I don't believe one bally word of it, and I don't want you to."
"Well, I won't to please you."
"Now, if you want to know about Doctor Rugvie, I can tell you. He lives, you might say, in the open. Ewart strikes me as the kind that takes to covert more. Doctor Rugvie is older too."
"He must be fifty if he 's a day."
"He 's fifty-four—and he is a widower, a straight out and out one."
"I know that."