She leaned her elbow on her knee, dropped her chin, which had become sadly sharpened of late, on her hand, and looked across the space of the fireplace at him with the same wistful expression in her eyes. "Malcolm, you’ll try and pay off that money? When father was able to understand things it worried him most frightfully whenever he thought about the mortgage. For his sake, promise me that you will try to pay it off." "Why, of course I will--the whole of the Rosmead money will go to that," he answered lightly. "It won’t take much to keep me at Creagh--or both of us, for the matter of that. But, of course, a bachelor establishment could be run more cheaply." "There couldn’t be anything much cheaper than Creagh with Margaret Maclaren and Diarmid to do the work," said Isla drily. "But I won’t remain long there to be a burden on you, Malcolm. I must go out and find something to do for myself." "Oh, nonsense," he said loftily. "The only condition on which I should let you leave Creagh would be that you go either to Barras or abroad with them. So don’t let us talk any more about that. And, really, Isla, if only you’ll be a bit reasonable and not too hard on a fellow, we might have a fairly good time even at Creagh. The Rosmeads are more than inclined to be kind, and there isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t avail ourselves of what they offer. Then, of course, there are the Drummonds. What ails Neil at Rosmead? He was positively savage about him this afternoon when you went out of the drawing-room with him." Isla did not smile. "Neil is rather silly about some things," she answered, and there was a vague regret in her eyes. She did not forget that, in a moment of keen loneliness and desperation, she had told Neil Drummond the truth about Malcolm’s home-coming, and it stood to reason that Neil would not forget it either. Her one desire was that that shameful truth should never come to the ears of the Rosmeads. She thought of them in the plural number, but it was Rosmead himself she meant. She already knew that his standard was very high, and that he might harshly judge a man like Malcolm if he knew him as he really was. Isla sat very still, looking rather intently at the open, ruddy face with the smiling eyes and the weak, mobile mouth, and she wondered whether there was any ultimate hope of his complete redemption. He had evidently been able to forget or to put behind him entirely the horror and the tragedy of that frightful day at Creagh and the word with which her accusing voice had smitten his ears. His volatile nature took things so easily and lightly that, in his estimation, practically nothing but the immediate moment mattered. Well perhaps, after all, she told herself, his policy was best. She had borne the burden and heat of the day, had lain awake at nights, pondering the problem of existence, had worn herself to a shadow for the honour of Achree and of the name she bore, and where was she left?