“Barry Seymour’s a puir weak fule and canna rule his ain hoose,” came the curt answer.

Mrs. McBain habitually spoke as excellent English as only a Scotswoman can, but it pleased her on occasion to assume the Doric—­much as a duchess may her tiara.

“Barry’s a dear,” protested Nan, “and he doesn’t need to play at being master in his own house.”

“I’m willing to believe you.  That red-headed body is mistress and master too.”

Sandy grinned.

“I consider that remark eminently personal.  The hue of one’s hair is a misfortune, not a fault,” he submitted teasingly.  “In Kitty you must at least allow that the red takes a more pleasing form than it does with me.”

Mrs. McBain sniffed.

“You’ll be tellin’ me next that her hair’s the colour God made it,” she observed indignantly.

Sandy and Nan broke into laughter.

“Well, mine is, anyway,” said the former.  “It would never have been this colour if I’d had a say in the matter.”

Eliza surveyed her offspring with disfavour.

“It’s an ill thing, Sandy McBain, to question the ways of the Almighty who made you.”

“I don’t.  It’s you who seem far more disposed to disparage the completed article than I.”  He beamed at her seraphically.

Eliza’s thin lips relaxed into an unwilling smile.  Sandy was as equally the joy of her heart as he was the flagellation of her conscience.

“Well, I’ll own you’re the first of the McBains to go daft over music.”

She handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke.  Then asked;

“And how’s your uncle, St. John?”

“He’s at Mallow, too.  We all are—­Penelope and Uncle David, and Ralph Fenton—­”

“And who may Mr. Fenton be?  I’ve never met him—­have I, Sandy?”

“No.  He’s a well-known singer Kitty’s recently admitted into the fold.”

“Do you mean he earns his living by singing at concerts?”

“Yes.  And a jolly good living, too.”

A shadow fell across Sandy’s pleasant freckled face.  It was a matter of unavailing regret to him that owing to his parents’ prejudice against music and musicians he had been debarred from earning a living in like manner with his long, capable fingers.  Eliza saw the shadow, and her brows contracted in a slight frown.  Vaguely she was beginning to realise some small part of the suffering which the parental restriction had imposed upon her son—­the perpetual irritation of a thwarted longing which it had entailed.  But she had not yet advanced sufficiently along the widening road of thought to grasp the pitiful, irreparable waste it had involved of a talent bordering on genius.

She pursed her lips obstinately together.

“There’ll come no blessing with money that’s earned by mere pleasuring,” she averred.

“If you only knew what hard work it means to be a successful musician, Aunt Eliza, you’d be less drastic in your criticism,” interposed Nan, with warmth.