"Ah, be damned to her!" he snapped viciously. "The whole thing can go to the de'il. It's a dog's life, that's what it is, and I 'm through. Ay, I am so." For a year he wandered across Europe, and to and fro in it. He saw Denmark and Jutland, and though he had sworn good-by to linen, he could not help examining the quality of the flax grown there, and he did n't think much of it--as no good Belfast man should. He visited Holland and approved the industrious population, but adjudged them "o'er pleased wi' themsel's." Paris he knew before, but it palled on him now. One of his old dreams had been to go there with Jeanie Lindsay. "It's kind o' empty," he thought. England rather irritated him. People there, knowing he came from Ireland, wished to know what he thought of Home Rule and were shocked when they heard it. He went north to Scotland for golf, and the flat Scot accent made him homesick for Belfast. "I think I 'll just run over to see how the old town 's getting on." The truth was, though he would n't acknowledge it to himself, he wanted to get news of Jeanie Lindsay. How was she? And was she the same as ever? And was she--the thought stabbed him strangely--laughing her slow laugh and looking her calm look for some other than he? News he got of her quickly and with a vengeance. Going across Donegal Place he was tapped on the arm. "I 'd like a wee word wi' you, Mr. Aleck Robertson." He saw beside him a compact figure with a set jaw and savage eyes. He was mostly cognizant of the eyes. They blazed at him with unconcealed hatred. "And who may you be?" "You 'll know me fine afore I 'm through with you, Aleck Robertson. I 'm Tom Lindsay, Jeanie Lindsay's brother." Robertson forgot the eyes in the question that jumped to his lips. He held out his hand. "I ha'e heard her speak o' you. You 're the one that went to Newcastle, to the shipbuilding. And how 's Jean?" Lindsay struck the proffered hand down. "She 's the way you left her, wi' this difference: There 's a bastard o' yours on her arm this four months. And do you know what I 'm going to do to you for that, Aleck Robertson? I 'm going to kill you!" "Wi' a baby!" "Wi' a baby o' yours!" "Wi' a baby o' mine!" Robertson was plainly dazed. "You were no' expecting that, maybe?" "No! I was no' expecting that." The big man tried to pull his faculties together. "And where is she now? She 's no' gone away, is she?" "No! She 's no' gone away. And she 's not where she might be, for all you did--in the poor-house! Nor tramping the streets, selling matches! No! She 's at home. In her father's house--" "At home, you say?" "She 's at home." Tom Lindsay put himself in Robertson's way. "And, now, listen to me--" The red-bearded man shoved Tom aside as though he were a troublesome bush in the path. "Will you get to hell out o' my way," he roared, "afore I gi'e you a clout on the lug?"