"I want to marry Margaret," I said when I entered.
Frank was reading The People's Journal. The paper fluttered slightly, and that was the only sign of surprise that came from him.
"Yea, Mester?" he said slowly. "Man, d'ye tell me that na? Aw see that the Roosians are makin' some progress again." He buried his head in his paper after throwing a look to his wife. The look clearly meant: "This is a matter for you to tak up, Lizzie."
Mrs. Thomson laid down her knitting carefully; then she rubbed her glasses with her apron. She glanced at Margaret, and Margaret rose and left the room quietly. I knew that she left the door half-closed so that she might hear from the stair-foot.
Her mother looked at me over her glasses.
"She's gey young," she said.
"A year older than you were when you married," I said with a smile.
She sat in deep thought for a long time. Then she turned to her husband.
"Frank," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, "ye'll better bring oot the whiskey."