So he went, wondering why he had come, and the following morning, still wrapped in a mental fog, he departed for the logging-camp, but not until his sister Jane had had her long-deferred inning. While he was in the garage at The Dreamerie, warming up his car, Jane appeared and begged him to have some respect for the family, even though, apparently, he had none for himself. Concluding a long and bitter tirade, she referred to Nan as "that abandoned girl."
Poor Jane! Hardly had she uttered the words before her father appeared in the door of the garage.
"One year, Janey," he announced composedly. "And I'd be pleased to see the photograph o' the human being that'll make me revoke that sentence. I'm fair weary having my work spoiled by women's tongues."
"I'll give you my photograph, old pepper-pot," Donald suggested. "I have great influence with you have I not?"
The Laird looked up at him with a fond grin.
"Well?" he parried.
"You will remit the sentence to one washing of the mouth with soap and water to cleanse it of those horrid words you just listened to."
"That's not a bad idea," the stern old man answered. "Janey, you may have your choice, since Donald has interceded for you."
But Jane maintained a freezing silence and swept out of the garage with a mien that proclaimed her belief that her brother and father were too vulgar and plebeian for her.
"I'm having the deil's own time managing my family," old Hector complained, "but I'll have obedience and kindness and justice in my household, or know the reason why. Aye—and a bit of charity," he added grimly. He stood beside the automobile and held up his hand up for his son's. "And you'll be gone a month, lad?" he queried.