"What about him?" Mr. Daney demanded, with slight emphasis on the pronoun.
"Oh, nothing; only—"
"Only what?"
"People say he's unduly interested in Nan Brent."
"If he is, that's his business. Don't let what people say trouble you, Mrs. Daney."
"Well, can I help it if people will talk?"
"Yes—when they talk to you."
"How do you know they've been talking to me, Andrew?" she demanded foolishly.
"Because you know what they say." Andrew Daney rose from the wicker deck-chair in which he had been lounging and leveled his index-finger at the partner of his joys and sorrows. "You forget Donald McKaye and that Brent girl," he ordered. "It's none of your business. All Don has to say to me is, 'Mr. Daney, your job is vacant'—and, by Judas Priest, it'll be vacant. Remember that, my dear."
"Nonsense, dear. The Laird wouldn't permit it—after all these years."