It was not a snub anyway, and Macgregor walked up to the counter. He came to the point at once.
“Wud ye advise me to try an’ get a job frae ma uncle?” he said, distinctly enough.
“Me?” The syllable was fraught with intense astonishment.
“Ye advised me afore to try it,” he said, fairly steadily.
“Did I?”—carelessly.
It was too much for him. “Oh, Christina!” he whispered reproachfully.
“Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business. I thought you preferred being a painter.”
The pity was that Christina should have just then remembered the existence of such a person as Jessie Mary, also the fact of her own slow walk from the shop the previous night. Yet she had forgotten both when she opened the panel at the back of the window a few inches. And perhaps she was annoyed with herself, knowing that she was not behaving quite fairly.
He let her remark concerning his preference for the painting pass, and put a very direct question.
“What made ye change yer mind aboot me that night?”