“It’s for keeping ink in. It’s an inkpot. The price is ninepence.”
“I can read,” said Macgregor, with perhaps his first essay in irony.
Christina tilted her chin. “I presume you want it for a gift,” she said haughtily.
“Na; I’m gaun to pay for it.”
“I meant to give away as a gift.” It was rather a stupid sentence, she felt. If she had only remembered to use the word “bestow.”
The boy’s clear eyes met hers for a second.
“It holds a great deal of ink,” she said, possibly in reply to her conscience.
“I’ll buy a bottle o’ ink, too, if ye like,” he said recklessly, and looked at her again.
A flood of honest kindliness swamped the business instinct of Christina. “I didna mean that!” she exclaimed, flopping into homely speech; “an’ I wudna sell ye that rotten inkpot for a hundred pound!”
It will be admitted that Macgregor’s amazement was natural in the circumstances. Ere he recovered from it she was in fair control of herself.