"Far more than his father is," he admitted humbly. "Damn the world and damn the people in it. You're a good girl, Nan. You always were a good girl--" "But suppose she wasn't--always?" Donald queried gently. "Is that going to make any difference--to you?" "I don't care what she was before you married her. I haven't thought about that for a long time the way I used to think about it. I built The Dreamerie for you and the girl you'd marry and I--I accept her unconditionally, my son, and thank God she has the charity to accept an old Pharisee like me for a father-in-law." Donald slipped his arm around Nan's waist, and started with her toward the door. "Tag along, father," he suggested, "and Nan will show you a prize grandson." At the door, Nan paused. "Do you think, father McKaye," she queried, "that the remainder of the family will think as you do?" "I fear not," he replied sadly. "But then, you haven't married the family. They'll accept you or keep out of Port Agnew; at any rate they'll never bother you, my dear. I think," he added grimly, "that I may find a way to make them treat you with civility at least." "He's a pretty good old sport after all, isn't he, Nan?" her husband suggested. "I'll tell the world he is," she answered archly, employing the A.E.F. slang she had already learned from Donald. She linked her arm in old Hector's and steered him down the hall to the living-room. "Your grandson is in there," she said, and opening the door she gently propelled him into the room. XLVII Nan was right. His grandson was there, but strange to relate he was seated, as naked as Venus (save for a diaper) on his grandmother's lap. Hector McKaye paused and glared at his wife. "Damn it, Nellie," he roared, "what the devil do you mean by this?" "I'm tired of being an old fool, Hector," she replied meekly, and held the baby up for his inspection. "It's time you were," he growled. "Come here, you young rascal till I heft you. By the gods of war, he's a McKaye!" He hugged the squirming youngster to his heart and continued to glare at his wife as if she were a hardened criminal. "Why didn't you tell me you felt yourself slipping?" he demanded. "Out with it, Nellie." "There will be no post-mortems," Nan interdicted. "Mother McKaye and Elizabeth and Jane and I patched up our difficulties when Donald came home yesterday. How we did it or what transpired before we did it, doesn't matter, you dear old snooper." "What? Elizabeth and Jane? Unconditional surrender?" She nodded smilingly and The Laird admitted his entire willingness to be--jiggered. Finally, having inspected his grandson, he turned for an equally minute inspection of his soldier son under the lamplight. "Three service stripes and one wound stripe," he murmured. "And you're not crippled, boy dear?"