Mac Tavish was holding the paper-weights. He banged them down on his desk
and shoved his nose close to hers. "Fash me nae mair wi' your silly talk
o' love, in business hours! If aye he wanted her when she was here at hame
and safe and sensible, the Morrison o' the Morrisons had only to reach his
hand to her and say, 'Coom, lass!' But noo that she is back wi' head high
and notions alaft, he'd no accept her! She's nowt but a draft signed by
Sham o' Shoddy and sent through the Bank o' Brag and Blaw! No! He'd no'
accept her! And now back wi' ye to yer tickety-tack! I hae my orders, and
the Queen o' Sheba might yammer and be no' the gainer!"

Miss Bunker swept up the sheet of blank paper with a vicious dab and went
back to her work, crumpling it. Passing the hat-tree, she was tempted to
grab the Morrison's coat and waistcoat and run into the mill with them,
dodging Mac Tavish and his paper-weights in spite of what she knew of his
threats regarding the use he proposed to make of them in case of need. She
believed that Miss Lana Corson would come to the office with the others
who were riding in the automobile. She had her own special cares and a
truly feminine apprehension in this matter, and she believed that the
young man, who was one of the guests at the reopened Corson mansion on
Corson Hill, was a suitor, just as Marion gossip asserted he was.

Miss Bunker had two good eyes in her head and womanly intuitiveness in her
soul, and she had read three times into empty air a dictated letter while
Stewart Morrison looked past her in the direction which the Corson car had
taken that first day when Lana Corson had shown herself on the street.

And here was that stiff-necked old watch-dog callously laying his corns so
that Stewart Morrison would appear to be boor enough to allow a young lady
to wait along with that unspeakable rabble; and when he did come he would
arrive in his shirt-sleeves to be matched up against a handsome young man