A brief pause, and Macgregor said drearily:
“Aweel, it doesna matter. I’ll awa’ hame.” And went languidly down the stairs.
“It doesna matter.” The words haunted Jessie Mary that night, and it was days before she got wholly rid of the uncomfortable feeling that Macgregor had not really wanted her to go to the dance, and that he had, in fact, been “codding” her.
Whereas, poor lad, he had only been “codding” himself, or, at least, trying to do so. By the time he reached the bottom step he had forgotten Jessie Mary.
* * * * *
Once more he tramped the streets.
At home Lizzie was showing her anxiety, and John was concealing his.
When, at long last, he entered the kitchen, he did not appear to hear his mother’s “Whaur ha’e ye been, laddie?” or his father’s “Ye’re late, ma son.” Their looks of concern at his tired face and muddy boots passed unobserved.
Having unlaced his boots and rid his feet of them more quietly than usual, he got up and went to the table at which his mother was sitting.
He took all the money—all—from his pockets and laid it before her.