Then he was convinced beyond
doubt that the Morrison was daft. Stewart did not even raise his eyes from
the book; he kept on dictating above the clatter of the rolling weights;
his intentness on the matter in hand was that of a business man putting a
proposition on paper for the purpose of making it definite and cogent and
clear.
But Stewart's thoughts were not at all clear, he was confessing to
himself; in spite of his assumed indifference, he was embarrassed by the
focused stares of Dow and Mac Tavish. He wondered what sudden,
devil-may-care whimsy was this that was galloping him away from business
and politics and every other sane subject! He was conscious that there was
in him a freakish and juvenile hankering to astonish his friends.
He heard Dow say: "Oh, don't worry about the boy, Andy! We do strange
things in big times! Even Nero fiddled when Rome was burning!"
Stewart finished the dictation and closed the book.
"Losh! I canna understand!" mourned Mac Tavish, not troubling to hush his
tones.
The girl hesitated, her gaze on her notes. Then she looked full into
Morrison's face, all her woman's intuitive and long-repressed sympathy in
her brimming eyes.
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