“I heard ye speakin’ aboot yer birthday to somebody at the picnic.”
“My! ye’ve a memory!”
“But it’s on Tuesday week—the twinty-third? I was wantin’ to be sure.”
“Weel, it’s the twinty-third, sure enough.” She heaved an affected sigh. “Nineteen! I’m gettin’ auld, Macgreegor. Time I was gettin’ a lad! Eh?” She laughed at his confusion of face. “But what for d’ye want to ken aboot ma birthday?” she innocently enquired, becoming graver.
The ingenuousness of the question helped him.
“Aw, I jist wanted to ken, Jessie Mary. Never heed aboot it. I hope ye’ll enjoy the dance—when it comes.” This was quite a long speech for Macgregor to make, but it might have been even longer had they not just then arrived at the provision shop.
“Here we are,” said she cheerfully. She had the decency to ignore the smile of the young man behind the counter—the young man with the sharp nose and exquisite black moustache; nor did she appear to notice another young man on the opposite pavement who was also gazing quite openly at her. “Here we are, an’ here we part—to meet again, I hope,” she added, with a softer glance.
“I’ll wait till ye’ve got yer messages,” said Macgregor, holding his ground.
She gave him her sweetest smile but one. “Na, Macgreegor; it’ll tak’ me a while to get the messages, an’ I’ve ither places to gang afterwards. Maybe I’ll see ye floatin’ aroun’ anither nicht.”
“But I’m no’ in a hurry. I—I wish ye wud let me wait.”