Christina brought forward a tray of glittering things. “These combs are much worn at present,” she informed him. “Observe the jewels.”
“They’ll no’ be real,” said Macgregor doubtfully.
“Well—a—no. Not exactly real. But everybody weers—wears imitation jewellery nowadays. The west-end’s full of it—chock-a-block, in fact.” She held up a pair of combs of almost blinding beauty. “Chaste—ninepence each.”
“Ay,” sighed Macgregor, “but I’m no’ sure——”
“Silver belt—quite the rage—one shilling.”
Macgregor remembered the scarlet belt at the picnic. He had a vague vision of a gift of his in its place. He held out his hand for the glittering object.
“You don’t happen to know the size of the lady’s waist?” said Christina in a most discreet tone of voice.
“I couldna say.” He laid down the belt, but kept looking at it.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, lifting the belt and fastening it round her waist. She was wearing a navy skirt and a scarlet flannel shirt, with a white collar and black tie. “My waist is just about medium.” She proceeded to put the combs in her hair. “Of course they would look better on a brunette.” She permitted herself the faintest of smiles. “But you can see how they look when they’re being worn.”
as there a hint of mockery in the bright grey-blue eyes? Macgregor did not observe it; nor was he shocked by the crudity and gaudiness of the ornaments in broad daylight. But perhaps the general effect was not so shocking. Christina, having previously experimented with the ornaments, had a pretty good idea of how they appeared upon her. It would be difficult to describe precisely what Macgregor thought just then, but it is to be feared that he made the sudden and unexpected discovery that Jessie Mary was not the only pretty girl in the world.