A bright fire burned in the grate, and there was not a speck of dust anywhere.
Dr Drummond, lost in his chair, with one knee dropped on the other, joined his fingers at the tips, and drew his forehead into a web of wrinkles.

Over it his militant grey crest curled up; under it his eyes darted two shrewd points of interrogation.
"What does Miss Murchison say to it ?" he repeated with craft and courage, as Finlay's eyes dropped and his face slowly flushed under the question.

It was in this room that Dr Drummond examined "intending communicants" and cases likely to come before the Session; he never shirked a leading question.

"Miss Murchison," said Finlay, after a moment, "was good enough to say that she thought her father's house would be open to Miss--to my friends when they arrived; but I thought it would be more suitable to ask your hospitality, sir." "Did she so ?" asked Dr Drummond gravely.

It was more a comment than an inquiry.