"It's about your mother," he went on. Jill gave a little start. "I felt so bothered last night—I suppose you'll think me a thorough turn-coat—but I couldn't sleep, thinking of it. She's been so awfully kind to me. And at last I got up and wrote a letter—a nice one"—he glanced at Jill nervously, but she simply nodded. "I tried to show her why we'd done this. And then ... I added"—he broke off—"I hope you won't be angry, Jill, I ought to have told you—discussed it first. But I went out and posted it—on the impulse. To Worthing, you know. She'll find it when she returns to-morrow..."
"What did you add?" Jill was impatient. "Do go on." She shook his arm.
"Well. I said..." he began to stammer a little. "I s-said I hoped she'd stay with us—our first vi-visitor, you know. Don't be cross..."
But Jill's answer swiftly dispelled the man's doubts. For she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him, her face radiant.
"So have I! I mean I wrote to Mother myself yesterday. Isn't it funny? I gave it to Roddy to hand to her the moment she gets home to-morrow! That's my secret"—she drew back, her eyes thoughtful—"You see, I felt ... it was rather mean—I was so happy—to leave her out. D'you understand?"
"Same here." McTaggart nodded. "I'm glad you have. It will pave the way to better relations bye and bye. She must come to us whenever she can."
There fell a little pause between them. Jill's thoughts had turned back to her old life and her brother. Her grey eyes grew wistful.
McTaggart saw this. He rose to his feet.
"Look here, Jill—come outside. We'll have a turn up and down the deck. It will do you good before the train."
"All right. Where's my ulster?"