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Updated: June 19, 2025
McKaye had acted on her own initiative; hence, Nan would, in all probability, refrain from disclosing this fact to The Laird in any future conversations. Reasoning further, Daney concluded there would be no future conversations.
"Andrew," she said softly but distinctly, "this is Nellie McKaye speaking. Hector and I have been discussing the advisability of sending for the Brent girl." "I I was goin' to take the matter up with you, Mrs. McKaye. I had a talk with your husband this afternoon, but he was a bit wild " "He isn't so wild now, Andrew. He's talked it over with the girls and me.
At the Sawdust Pile the monotony of Nan Brent's life remained unbroken; she was marking time, waiting for something to turn up. Since the last visit of the McKaye ambassador she had not altered her determination to exist independent of financial aid from the McKaye women or their father, for according to her code, the acceptance of remuneration for what she had done would be debasing.
He lighted a cigarette and stretched himself out on the old divan. She watched him blowing smoke rings at the ceiling and there was no music in her soul. In the afternoon the McKaye limousine drew up at the front gate and Nan's heart fluttered violently in contemplation of a visit from her husband's mother and sisters. She need not have worried, however.
"My dear Mrs. McKaye," Daney retorted in even tones, "do you wish me to inform your husband of a certain long distance telephone conversation? If so " She hung up without waiting to say good-by, and the following day she left for Seattle, accompanied by her daughters. Throughout the week The Laird forbore mentioning his son's name to Mr.
Daney squarely in the eyes as she said this "I shall see to it that no man, woman, or child in Port Agnew not even Don McKaye or The Laird, who have been most kind to me shall know where I have gone." "I'm sorry matters have so shaped themselves in your life, poor girl, that you're feeling bitter," Mr.
"My dears," he said in an unnaturally subdued voice, "Donald has just left the Sawdust Pile with the Brent lass to be married. He has made his bed and it is my wish that he shall lie in it." "Oh, Hector!" Mrs. McKaye had spoken quaveringly. "Oh, Hector, dear, do not be hard on him!" He raised his great arm as if to silence further argument. "He has brought disgrace upon my house.
McKaye, who had, in turn, informed old Hector, who had received the news with casual interest, little dreaming that he would ever have cause to remember it in later years. And The Laird was an old man, worldly-wise and of mature judgment. His soul wore the scars of human perfidy, and, because he could understand the weakness of the flesh, he had little confidence in its strength.
Andrew Daney, hard beset because of her second experience with the "Blue Bonnet" glance of a McKaye, had decided to remove herself from the occasions of gossip and be in a position to claim an alibi in the event of developments. So she abandoned Daney to the mercies of a Japanese cook and departed for Whatcom to visit a married daughter.
"That," she retorted, still smilingly, "is a secret. It may interest you, Mr. McKaye, to know that I am not even leaving a forwarding address for my mail. You see, I never receive any letters of an important nature." He was silent a moment, digesting this. Then, "And does my son share a confidence which I am denied?" "He does not, Mr. McKaye.
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