The fire snapped and the watch went on ticking.
“So Advena thought well of it all. Did she so?”
The young man raised his heavy eyes and looked unflinchingly at Dr Drummond.
“Miss Murchison,” he said, “is the only other person to whom I have confided the matter. I have written, fixing that date, with her approval—at her desire. Not immediately. I took time to—think it over. Then it seemed better to arrange for the ladies reception first, so before posting I have come to you.”
“Then the letter has not gone?”
“It is in my pocket.”
“Finlay, you will have a cigar? I don’t smoke myself; my throat won’t stand it; but I understand these are passable. Grant left them here. He’s a chimney, that man Grant. At it day and night.”
This was a sacrifice. Dr Drummond hated tobacco, the smell of it, the ash of it, the time consumed in it. There was no need at all to offer Finlay one of the Reverend Grant’s cigars. Propitiation must indeed be desired when the incense is abhorred. But Finlay declined to smoke. The Doctor, with his hands buried deep in his trousers pockets, where something metallic clinked in them, began to pace and turn. His mouth had the set it wore when he handled a difficult motion in the General Assembly.
“I’m surprised to hear that, Finlay; though it may be well not to be surprised at what a woman will say—or won’t say.”
“Surprised?” said the younger man confusedly. “Why should anyone be surprised?”