"Well, you are; but I can stand it, and whether I resent it or not cannot be a matter of much import to you or the others. And I'll try not to be disagreeable. Just why did you come to see me, Mrs. Daney?"
"I might as well speak plainly, Miss Brent. Donald McKaye's action in ridding the Sawdust Pile of your neighbors has occasioned comment. It appears that this was his first official act after assuming his father's place in the business. Then he visited you and your father for an hour, and your child, whom it appears you have named Donald, called him 'daddy.' Then, last Saturday night, Mr. McKaye sent over some clothing for the boy—"
"Whereupon the amateur detectives took up the trail," Nan interrupted bitterly. "And you heard of it immediately."
"His father heard of it also," Mrs. Daney continued. "It worries him."
"It should not. He should have more faith in his son, Mrs. Daney."
"He is a father, my dear, very proud of his son, very devoted to him, and fearfully ambitious for Donald's future."
"And you fear that I may detract from the radiance of that future? Is that it?"
"In plain English," the worthy lady replied brutally, "it is."
"I see your point of view very readily, Mrs. Daney. Your apprehensions are ridiculous—almost pathetic, Don McKaye's great sympathy is alone responsible for his hardihood in noticing me, and he is so much too big for Port Agnew that it is no wonder his motives are misunderstood. However, I am sorry his father is worried. We have a very great respect for The Laird; indeed, we owe him a debt of gratitude, and there is nothing my father or I would not do to preserve his peace of mind."
"The talk will die out, of course, unless something should occur to revive it, Miss Brent—I mean, Nan. But it would be just like Donald McKaye to start a revival of this gossip. He doesn't care a farthing for what people think or say, and he is too young to realize that one must pay some attention to public opinion. You realize that, of course."