As he halted at the window, the panel at the back was drawn tight with an audible snap. For a moment he felt snubbed; then he assured himself there was nothing extraordinary in the occurrence, and prepared to enter the shop, reminding himself, firstly, that he was going to purchase a penholder, secondly, that he was not going to lose his head when the bell banged.
Christina was perched at the desk writing with much diligence. She laid down a pencil and slipped from her stool promptly but without haste.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Robinson,” she said demurely.
If anyone else in the world had called him “Mister Robinson” he would have resented it as chaff, but now, though taken aback, he felt no annoyance.
“Ay, it’s a fine day,” he returned, rather irrelevantly, and suddenly held out his hand.
This was a little more than Christina had expected, but she gave him hers with the least possible hesitation. For once in her life, however, she was not ready with a remark.
Macgregor having got her hand, let it go immediately, as though he were doubtful as to the propriety of what he had done.
“I’ve been workin’ late every day this week excep’ Tuesday,” he said.
For an instant Christina looked pleased; then she calmly murmured: “Oh, indeed.”
“Ay, every day excep’ Tuesday, till nine o’clock,” he informed her, with an effort.