"Better take my car," Bethune was amused—"You're a Scotchman, aren't you? Once across the border you've only got to say you're husband and wife and the thing's fair and square, I understand."
"Jove! I never thought of it." McTaggart looked up. "She's the prettiest thing you ever set eyes on."
"Anything like Jill?"
"Not a scrap!" The sudden contrast checked his flow of words on the crest of a lover-like flood of description. Then followed one of those swift afterthoughts peculiar to his analytical brain. The difference was not all to Cydonia's advantage; she lacked the mentality of the other girl.
Angrily he thrust aside the fleeting disloyalty as Bethune went on in his calm voice.
"I don't see why the old man was so riled? ... You're quite decent to look at——" his honest eyes twinkled—"and you've got a steady income, rare in these days. What does he want? A title, I suppose. Some young ass with debts who'll make her 'milady.'"
"That's about it." McTaggart scowled.
"D'you think she'll stand by you?"
"Of course," said the lover.
"Then—that's all serene. I don't suppose you hanker for fatherly attention and the family circle?"