'Ha'e yer tea wi' us,' said the hospitable Macgregor.
She glanced at him under lowered lashes, her colour rising. 'My!
ye're awfu' kind,' she said softly. 'I wish to goodness I could.'
'Scoot hame an' tell yer mither, an' we'll wait for ye here,' said
stage-manager William.
'I wudna trust _you_ . . . but I think I could trust _him_.'
'Oh, we'll wait sure enough,' Macgregor said indifferently.
'I'll risk it!' she cried, and straightway departed.
Willie grinned at his friend. 'What dae ye think o' fat Maggie?'
he said.
'Naething,' answered Mac, and refused to be drawn into further
conversation.
Within half an hour she was back, flushed and bright of eye. She
had on a pink print, crisp and fresh, a flowery hat, gloves
carefully mended, neat shoes and transparent stockings.
'By Jings, ye're dressed to kill at a thoosan' yairds!' Willie
observed.
Ignoring him, she looked anxiously for the other's approval.
'D'ye like hot pies?' he inquired, rising and stretching himself.
An hour later, in the picture house a heartrending, soul thrilling
melodrama was at its last gasp. The long suffering heroine was in
the arms of the long misjudged, misfortune-ridden, but ever
faithful hero.
'Oh, lovely!' murmured Maggie.
Macgregor said nothing, but his eyes were moist. He may, or may
not, have been conscious of a plump, warm, thinly-clad shoulder
close against his arm.
Hero and heroine vanished.
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