“What night?” she asked flippantly, and told herself it was the silliest thing she had ever uttered.
She had gone too far—she saw it in his face.
“I didna think ye was as bad as that,” he said in a curiously hard voice, and turned from the counter.
Quick anger—quick compunction—quick fear—and then:
“Mac!”
He wheeled at the door. She was holding out her hand. Her smile was frail.
“Are ye in earnest?” he said in a low voice, but he did not wait for her answer.
She drew away her hand, gently. “Dinna ask me ony questions,” she pleaded. “I—I didna really mean what I said that night, or this night either. I think I was off my onion”—a faint laugh—“but I’m sorry I behaved the way I did. Is that enough?”
It was more than enough; how much more he could not say. “I’ve missed ye terrible,” he murmured.
Christina became her practical self. “So ye’re for tryin’ yer uncle’s business——” she began.