Have you, Sandy ?" Sandy McBain grinned responsively.

He was the somewhat surprising offspring of the union between Nan's Early Victorian aunt, Eliza, and a prosaic and entirely uninteresting Scotsman.

Red-haired and freckled, with the high cheekbones of his Celtic forebears, he was a young man of undeniable ugliness, redeemed only by a pair of green eyes as kind and honest as a dog's, and by a voice of surprising charm and sweetness.
"Not many," he replied easily.

"I gave you all the largest, anyway." "Sandy says he hasn't left any," resumed Nan calmly.
"At least, only small ones.

We mustn't blame him.