“Auld folk?”
“Frae your age upwards. An’ next year, when I put up ma hair, I’ll be gettin’ to dances. Can ye waltz?”
Macgregor gave his head a dismal shake. “I—I doobt ye’re ower high-class,” he muttered hopelessly. “Ye’ll no’ be for lookin’ at me next year.”
“No’ if ye wear a face like a fiddle. I like to look at cheery things. What’s up wi’ ye?”
“Oh, naething. I suppose ye expec’ to be terrible rich some day.”
“That’s the idea.”
“What’ll ye dae wi’ the money? I suppose ye dinna ken.”
“Oh, I ken fine,” she returned, with an eager smile. “I’ll buy auntie a lovely cottage at the coast, an’ uncle a splendid motor car, an’ masel’ a big white steam yacht.”
“Ye’re no’ greedy,” he remarked a little sulkily.
“That’ll be merely for a start, of course. I’ll tak’ ye a trip roun’ the world for the price o’ a coat o’ pent to the yacht. Are ye on? Maybe ye’ll be a master-penter by then.”