"There will be no post-mortems," Nan interdicted. "Mother McKaye and Elizabeth and Jane and I patched up our difficulties when Donald came home yesterday. How we did it or what transpired before we did it, doesn't matter, you dear old snooper."
"What? Elizabeth and Jane? Unconditional surrender?"
She nodded smilingly and The Laird admitted his entire willingness to be—jiggered. Finally, having inspected his grandson, he turned for an equally minute inspection of his soldier son under the lamplight.
"Three service stripes and one wound stripe," he murmured. "And you're not crippled, boy dear?"
"Do I fight like one? Hector, man, those punches of yours would have destroyed a battalion of cripples. Oh, you old false-alarm! Honestly, Dad, you're the most awful dub imaginable. And trying to bribe me into permitting you to escape—what the deuce have you been monkeying with? You reek of ammonia—here, go away from my son. You're poison."
The Laird ignored him. "What's that ribbon?" he demanded.
"Distinguished Service Cross."
"You must have bought it in a pawnshop. And that thing?"
"Croix de Guerre."
"And that red one?"