He was always conscious of a reserve deepening at times to a sullenness in McNish's manner, the cause of which he could not certainly discover.

That McNish was possessed of a mentality of more than ordinary power there was no manner of doubt.

Jack had often listened with amazement to his argumentation with the Reverend Murdo, against whom he proved over and over again his ability to hold his own, the minister's superiority as a trained logician being more than counterbalanced by his antagonist's practical experience.
As he thought of these evenings, he was ready to believe that his suspicion of the Scotchman's ill-will toward himself was due largely to imagination, and yet he could not rid himself of the unpleasant memory of McNish's convulsed face that afternoon.
"What the deuce is the matter with the beggar, anyway ?" he said to himself.
Suddenly a new suggestion came to him.
"It can't be," he added, "surely the idiot is not jealous." Then he remembered Annette's attitude at the moment, her hands pressing his hard to her breast, her face lifted up in something more than appeal.
"By Jove! I believe that may be it," he mused.

"And Annette?
Had she observed it?
What was in her heart?
Was there a reason for the Scotchman's jealousy on that side ?" This thought disturbed him greatly.

He was not possessed of a larger measure of self-conceit than falls to the lot of the average young man, but the thought that possibly Annette had come to regard him other than as a friend released a new tide of emotion within him.