He took an ordinary chair, and tried hard to look at his ease.
As she took off her hat at the mirror over the mantelpiece she remarked: “You’ll like uncle at once, and you’ll like auntie before long. She’s still a wee bit prim.”
He noticed that her speech had changed with entering the house, but somehow the “genteel English” did not seem so unnatural now. He supposed he would have to learn to speak it, too, presently.
“But she is the best woman in the world,” Christina continued, patting her hair, “and she’ll be delighted about you going into your uncle’s business. I think it was splendid of you managing your aunt so well.”
Macgregor smiled faintly. “I doobt it was her that managed me,” he said. “But, Christina, I’ll no’ let her be sorry—nor—nor you either.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get on quickly,” she said, gravely, bending to unbutton her long coat.
“I intend to dae that,” he cried, uplifted by her words. “Gi’e me a year or twa, an’ I’ll show ye!”
She slipped out of the coat, and stood for a moment, faintly smiling, in her best frock, a simple thing of pale grey lustre relieved with white, her best black shoes, her best thread stockings, her heavy yellow plait over her left shoulder.
The boy caught his breath.
“Just a minute,” she said, and left the room to put away her coat and hat.