Auntie Nan looked concerned. “I don't think I should like Philip to live long at an inn,” she said.
“But now I'm in rooms in the Hay market.”
Auntie Nan looked relieved.
“That must be better,” she said. “Noisy in the mornings, perhaps, but your evenings will be quiet for study, I should think.”
“Precisely,” said Boss, with a snigger, touching the piano again, and Philip, sitting near the door, felt the palm of his hand itch for the whole breadth of his cousin's cheek.
Uncle Peter came in hurriedly, with short, nervous steps. His hair as well as his eyebrows was now white, his eye was hollow, his cheeks were thin, his mouth was restless, and he had lost some of his upper teeth, he coughed frequently, he was shabbily dressed, and had the look of a dying man.
“Ah! it's you, Anne! and Philip, too. Good morning, Philip. Give the piano a rest, Ross—that's a good lad. Well, Miss Christian, well!”
“Philip came of age yesterday, Peter,” said Auntie Nan in a timid voice.
“Indeed!” said the Ballawhaine, “then Ross is twenty next month. A little more than a year and a month between them.”
He scrutinised the old lady's face for a moment without speaking, and then said, “Well?”