So the next day, to Jamie, Mr. James, just as his mouth was open about the last shipment from Bordeaux:—
"Well, what is it, Jamie? Something about Miss Mercedes?"
"It's na aboot the lassie, but I'm thinkin' young Master Harleston is aye coming to tha hoose abune his needs," said Jamie, taken off his guard, in broadest Scotch. And he mopped his face; the conflict between love and loyalty had been exhausting.
"Harley Bowdoin? Dear me!" cried Mr. James. "How far has it gone?"
"It canna go too far for the gude o' the young man," said Jamie testily. "But I was bound to tell ye, and I ha' done so."
"Does he go to your house,—Salem Street?"
Jamie nodded. "He's aye there tha Fridays."
"Dancing-class nights," muttered Mr. James. Then he remembered that Abby, his wife, had spoken of their nephew's absence. He was studying so hard, it had been said. "Thank you, Jamie. I'll see to it. Thank you very much, Jamie."
