"O yes, I don't think there's anything improper; you needn't be uneasy, in the least, McKenzie."
There were a good many puffs before the new-comer spoke. He was evidently thinking deeply.
"I'm not uneasy about it, but I suppose you know what people will be saying. I know better, of course; but they'll say it, all the same."
"Come, now, McKenzie, who cares for what they say? When you get a little older you won't mind, you know."
This was a club joke, for McKenzie wasn't very young. He had a way of turning red, however, very youthfully, and did care what people said about him, if it had anything to do with the sex opposed to his.
"Ah, bah! that's all nonsense. You'll care, I guess, as much as anybody, when you find what everybody, these ladies here into the bargain, expect of you."
"That's your opinion, is it? Well, come now, I'll set you at rest. These ladies are remarkably sensible. The youngest of them, who is the only one you'd be likely to want me to marry, has a great contempt for me; thinks I'm a brute, and all that. She's fond of the children, and is only civil to me because I happen to be their father and her host."
"Ah, bah!" cried McKenzie, with infinite contempt.
"It's the truth, McKenzie. And I'll tell you something more; she's a spit-fire, and I've been so afraid of her I haven't been near the house all winter."
"You've made up for it this summer, then. No, Andrews, don't you tell me any such stuff. I'm not so young as that, you know."