The fog swallowed them up again in the narrow hedged-in road, and McTaggart tucked a hand through his companion's arm.
"Tell me all about it," he said persuasively, "a worry only grows by being bottled up."
She gave him a swift look from under her wet lashes, tempted by the sympathy which rang in his voice.
"It's Stephen. That's all."
"I thought so," his face was dark; "what's he been doing now? What a rotter the fellow is!"
"It's not so much what he does," she pulled herself together and with a defiant gesture passed a hand across her eyes. "It's the fact of his being there, all day long ... it's difficult to explain. But I can't bear to see him, sitting in Father's chair, as if it were his by right, as though he were the master..."
She broke off indignantly, her tears dried by anger, her smooth cheeks flushed, her hand unconsciously tightening on his arm.
"It makes Roddy furious! Of course he's only a boy, but he's such an old dear,"—her love for her brother was plain. "If only Stephen would let him alone instead of teasing him! He treats him like a kid, with a 'Run away and play!' And no boy will stand that—in his own home too! And of course there are rows, and Mother takes his side."
"What—Stephen's?" McTaggart stared in surprise.
"Rather! He can't do wrong—'poor dear Stephen'! And it's no good chiming in, it only makes things worse. For if I do Mother says it's because ... I'm jealous."