So she looked steadily and calmly into her son's scarlet
face. Jock's father had been a liar.
She put her hand on the boy's arm.
"You're a day ahead of schedule, Jock," she said evenly.
"So are you," retorted Jock, sullenly, his hands jammed into his
pockets.
"All the better for both of us, Kid. I was just going over to the
hotel to clean up, Jock. Come along, boy."
The boy's jaw set. His eyes sought any haven but that of Emma
McChesney's eyes. "I can't," he said, his voice very low. "I've an
engagement to take dinner with a bunch of the fellows. We're going
down to the Inn. Sorry."
A certain cold rigidity settled over Emma McChesney's face. She eyed
her son in silence until his miserable eyes, perforce, looked up into
hers.
"I'm afraid you'll have to break your engagement," she said.
She turned to face Mary Cutting's regretful, understanding gaze. Her
eyebrows lifted slightly. Her head inclined ever so little in the
direction of the half-scared, half-defiant "chicken."
"You attend to your chicken, Mary," she said.
Pages:
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71