And he dreamed that night of, among other queer things, a shop window, a plait of fair hair on a scarlet shoulder, and a black beetle.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Mercy, laddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, as her son entered the kitchen, a little late for tea. “What ha’e ye been daein’ to yer face?”
The colour induced by the question seemed almost to extinguish the hectic spot at Macgregor’s left cheek-bone.
“Washin’ it,” he answered shortly, taking his accustomed chair.
“But it’s cut.”
“Tits, Lizzie!” muttered Mr. Robinson. “Are ye for toast, Macgreegor?”
“He’s been shavin’ his whiskers,” said Jimsie. “Did ye no’ ken Macgreegor’s gettin’ whiskers, Maw?” he went on in spite of a warning pressure from sister Jeannie. “Paw, what way dae folk get whiskers?”