“Miss Tod wud be vexed wi’ me for lossin’ a guid customer. She wud gi’e me the sack, maybe.”
“Wud she?—the auld besom!” cried Macgregor, retracing his steps.
“Oh, whisht! She’s no’ an auld besom. But I ken she wud be vexed.” Christina sighed. “I suppose I’m to blame for——”
“It’s me that’s to blame,” he interrupted. “Here!” he said in an unsteady whisper, “will ye shake han’s?”
After a momentary hesitation she gave him her hand, saying graciously: “I’ve no objections, I’m sure. To tell the truth,” she went on, “I am not entirely disinterested in you, sir.”
Macgregor withdrew his empty hand. “I—I wish ye wudna speak like that,” he sighed.
“Like what?”
“That awfu’ genteel talk.”
“Sorry,” she said. “But it gangs doon wi’ maist o’ the customers. Besides, I try to keep it up to please ma aunt. But it doesna soun’ frien’ly-like, does it?”
“That’s why I dinna like it,” he ventured, more easily.