When Miss Macleod's nephew had finished reading this letter, he wiped the perspiration from his brow. Then he wiped his glasses. Then he sat thinking, not too pleasantly. Such a letter was a bitter pill to swallow. Then, not desirous that his aunt's epistle should be read by his wife, he tore it into strips, and burned them one by one. He told himself that he would never forgive his aunt--never! and that, willingly, he would never look upon her face again. But to so resolve was only to add another to his list of follies. Within twenty-four hours of his marriage--fortunately for him--his wife had proved that the grey mare was once more the better horse. Now she had got her man, at last, the strong vein of common sense that was in her came to the front. When Miss Macleod came to see her, she received her with open arms; and, as a matter of course, where she led her husband followed. To one thing Alan had been constant--to the doctrine of the "celibate priest." According to him, a "priest" married was not a "priest" at all. Immediately after his marriage, therefore, nobody offering the least objection, he quitted the "priesthood." He is now a gentleman of leisure. Probably with a view of providing him with some occupation his wife bids fair to come up to his aunt's standard of a sensible woman, and to present him with half a dozen sons. There is, therefore, no fear of the Macleods of Pittenquhair becoming--like certain volcanoes--extinct, at least in the present generation. XIII A RUNAWAY WIFE CHAPTER I.--FLIGHT The quarrel which had begun about nothing, had become a raging storm. She faced him with clenched fists and flashing eyes. "Perhaps you would like me to leave you!--to go, and relieve you of my presence! Our marriage has been a mistake. If you like, I will do my best so that the mistake may go no further. You have only to say the word, and I will go out of this house, never to return to it. Is that what you wish?" He laughed. It was as if he had struck her across the face. "Consult your own wishes, as you are in the habit of doing, pay no regard to mine. I can only say that if you wish to go, you are at perfect liberty to do so--I shall be content." "Do you mean that?" "Unlike you, I am in the habit of meaning what I say." She drew a deep breath, as if she were choking. "Then you wish me to go? To leave your house?" "Don't I tell you to have regard only to your own desires--as it is your usual custom? But if you will have it, I tell you quite frankly that if you propose to continue to play the _rôle_ of termagant, I would much rather you did it in some other house than this. If I can have nothing else in my home, I should like to have peace." "Then you shall have it." "Thank you. Will you be so good as to let me have it at your earliest convenience?" He turned to leave the room. She stopped him.