"Something has. The next time you dine in this house it will be off porridge."
"We'll leave the next time till it comes. To return to Margaret Wallace. She's not married yet, and, so far as I can judge, she's not likely to be. It's want of pence, both with him and with her. If she had some of Cuthbert Grahame's money, as she ought to have, it'd make all the difference."
"It's in part your fault that she hasn't."
"I'm not denying it, and I'm not forgetting it. If I've been guilty of the unforgivable sin, it was when I brought that woman to Cuthbert Grahame's bedside. I sometimes think that I'll see it chalked up against me in letters of fire when I'm brought up before the throne."
"Stuff!"
"Maybe--to you. You're devoid of decent feeling, Andrew McTavish; to you all's stuff. What's become of the woman?"
"What woman?"
"She who calls herself Mrs. Grahame?"
"She calls herself Mrs. Grahame no longer."
"How's that?"