"Ay," Jean set her great knuckles against her hip as she stirred the broth she was making for the sickroom; "ye reck of naebody so long as ye can please yersel', an gang oot an' in, and come an' go, withoot a 'by your leave' tae ony person.... An' how come ye tae be here, all fettled up, in the middle of the afternoon? Are ye no workin'? An' if no, what are ye daein'? Say!" Jean turned, gripped Daisy by the shoulders suddenly and hard, and studied her with brows knit and eyes ablaze, "ye'll answer me that this minute—what are ye daein' for your bed an' board? If all's no richt, man! I'll tur-rn ye across my knee an' skelp ye, like a bairn! I'll save ye from the street, or I'll no leave a whole inch o' hide on your back!"
"Is the Missis dying?" Daisy repeated, tears now in her eyes.
"Ay," said Jean, shaking her, "an' all the greetin' in the warld'll no save her the now. But come! Aboot yersel'! Oot wi't, I say!"
"Oh, I'm all right, Jean," said Daisy, still thinking about Lady Harrison, "I'm married.... Say, can I go upstairs with you, when you take up her broth, and see her?"
"Married!" Jean sat, almost stumbled, into a chair behind her. In this position, she stared at Daisy for a moment; then murmured, half, as it were, to herself, "Lassie, lassie! ye're a mystery to me. I absolutely gie ye up, as I wad a conundrum book wi' no key. Wha's the lad? Yon jitney man?"
"No." Daisy dimpled a little.
"No?" Jean, her elbow on the side-table, leaned forward with renewed interest; "I thocht, now, it could be nane other than Curly Head Jamie. Well, then, ye've no done the impossible, I take it, and hookit Nicky Cluett, have ye? Man! if ye ha' got him, yon's a laddie will soon gie ye your fine hoose an' motor-car. He's drawin' in the siller with a hand-rake, like, these days."
"It's not Nicky," said Daisy, smoothing out her sash and putting her head a little on one side.
"Weel, ye micht have set your cap for him, onyway," Jean commented, as she reached over and gave the broth a little stir to keep it from burning; "Baby Jock tells me it's common talk ye made a hit wi' Nick, you nicht at the dance. Wha did ye tak', then, if it wasna Nick? Oot wi't. Ye've fair got me on pins an' needles. Do I ken him?"
"Well, I don't know," said Daisy, protracting her mystery with a teasing delight; "may be you do. Yes, I think you know him. It's— it's—" Daisy leaned over, and said the name dramatically, right in Jean's ear.