Don't you think we ought to get a
word to Mr. Morrison?"
"Word o' what?" The old man wrinkled his nose, already sniffing what was
on the way.
"Why, that Miss Lana may be calling, along with her father."
"What then?"
"Mr. Morrison is a gentleman, above all things," declared the girl,
nettled by this supercilious interrogation. "If Miss Corson calls with her
father and is obliged to wait, Mr. Morrison will be mortified. Very likely
he will be angry because he wasn't notified. I understand the social end
of things better than you, Daddy Mac. I think it's my duty to take in a
word to him."
"Aye! Yus! Gude! And tell him the music is ready, the flowers are here,
and the tea is served! Use the office for all owt but the wool business.
To Auld Hornie wi' the wool business! Politeeks and socieety! Lass, are ye
gone daffie wi' the rest?"
"Hush, Daddy Mac! Don't raise your voice in your temper. What if he should
still be in love with Miss Lana, spite of her being away among the great
folks all this long time?"
Mac Tavish was holding the paper-weights. He banged them down on his desk
and shoved his nose close to hers. "Fash me nae mair wi' your silly talk
o' love, in business hours! If aye he wanted her when she was here at hame
and safe and sensible, the Morrison o' the Morrisons had only to reach his
hand to her and say, 'Coom, lass!' But noo that she is back wi' head high
and notions alaft, he'd no accept her! She's nowt but a draft signed by
Sham o' Shoddy and sent through the Bank o' Brag and Blaw! No! He'd no'
accept her! And now back wi' ye to yer tickety-tack! I hae my orders, and
the Queen o' Sheba might yammer and be no' the gainer!"
Miss Bunker swept up the sheet of blank paper with a vicious dab and went
back to her work, crumpling it.
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