"Oh, dear," Bee said, tacitly acknowledging that he was right, "I suppose that means swarms of newspaper men from London."
"Och, no. Only the Clarion. If it's the Clarion's story none of the rest will bother. And whoever they send down you don't have to worry. They're all Balliol men, I understand."
With which flip at the English Press, Mr. Macallan looked round for his hat and made motions of departure.
"I'm very grateful to you, and to you, Mr. Ashby, for being so accommodating in the matter of information. I won't keep you any longer. May I offer you my congratulations on your happiness"-for a second the pale blue eyes rested in mild benevolence on Simon-"and my thanks for your kindness."
"You're a long way from home, aren't you, Mr. Macallan?" Bee said conversationally as she went to the front door with him.
"Home?"
"Scotland."
"Oh, I see. How did you know I was Scots? Oh, my name, of course. Ay, it's a far cry to Glasgow; but this is just the long way round to London, so to speak. If I'm going to work on an English paper it's as well to know something of the-the — "
"Aborigines?" suggested Bee.
"Local conditions, I was going to say," Mr. Macallan said solemnly.