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said, ‘The – master – wants – me,’ and he laid strong emphasis on each word.
    Her face showed him that she was in no doubt as to how much he knew of the truth of the situation. He went into the passage and towards the office door, and there he had to force himself to knock.
    ‘Come in.’
    Slowly he opened the door and entered the room, then stood with his hand on the door looking at the man seated behind the desk.
    Angus McBain glanced upwards as he pushed a ledger to one side and rearranged some papers on the desk; then he said, ‘Come in and close the door, Davie.’
    Davie did as he was bidden, and slowly walked up the narrow room until he was standing in front of the desk looking down into the face of his master. The face looked all thin, nose, lips, eyebrows, yet the hair on his head was black and thick. It lay like a silk sheath and was as yet untouched with grey. Until this moment Davie hadn’t realised how thin the master was in all ways. His body was tall and thin, his face was long and thin, even the grey of his eyes was a thin colour; and his voice was thin, clear, sharp and thin.
    ‘Do you know why I’ve sent for you, Davie?’
    Should he say ‘Yes, Master’, or ‘No, Master’? He stared down into the flickering half-veiled gaze. The drooping lids suggested that they could close at any moment, and he said, ‘I’ve got a good idea’ – he paused a second before he added – ‘Master.’
    Angus McBain brought his attention once again to the papers on the desk and his Adam’s apple made a rapid movement in his neck, stretching the skin in its passage. ‘You have been courting Molly for some time . . . ’
    ‘I’ve never courted Molly, Master.’
    Again they were looking at each other, and now McBain’s eyes were wide and his voice stiff as he said, ‘I have seen you myself walking the fields.’
    ‘You can walk the fields, Master, without courtin’.’
    Again there was a pause before McBain said, and thickly now, ‘The girl is with child and she won’t name the man.’
    ‘Won’t she, Master?’
    McBain made no reply to this. At another time the young fellow’s tone would have brought his tongue lashing at him for he allowed no servant, man or woman, young or old, to approach him as an equal. His forebears had always run the farm as gentlemen farmers, not like the ordinary trish-trash who worked neighbouring farms and allowed their people to pig in with them at a central table in the kitchen. Those he employed knew their place and gave him his. He was a good master to them and acted as their counsellor. He demanded respect and subservience as his right.
    But there was neither respect nor subservience in young Armstrong’s manner. Of course he was piqued at discovering Molly had fallen and he’d had no hand in it, it was natural he supposed, and, therefore, he must make allowances. Well, the thing to do was to get it over and quickly. He picked up a sheet of paper from the table, scrutinised it for a moment, then laying it down but his eyes still on it, he said, ‘You will marry Molly.’
    ‘ . . . I’ll not you know . . . Master.’ Again there was the pause before ‘Master’.
    ‘What!’ The thin face was thrust upwards now. ‘Did I hear you aright?’
    ‘Aye, you heard me aright.’
    ‘You would defy my order, and, and leave her with an unnamed child?’
    ‘Aye, both, Master.’
    McBain’s eyes were wide now. There was more in the young fellow’s attitude than frustrated virility; he felt a sense of uneasiness. Had Geary, because he had been thwarted in his attempt at blackmail, hinted something to the fellow? Surely the man would have more sense. Had he not a family to support? And did he not realise that the roads were crawling with farm workers begging for work? Nine shillings a week he was paying Geary and three shillings between his sons; that was a tidy sum, not counting the two shillings a week from Molly. Then there was his cottage, milk, potatoes, and two