"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.
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