Presently, with the help of cigarettes, which they smoked industriously, they began to revive. Their lips were unsealed, though conversation could not be said to gush. They did their best to look like veterans. An old woman smiled rather sadly, but very kindly, in their direction, and Macgregor reddened, while Willie spat in defiance of the displayed regulation.
As the journey proceeded, their talk dwindled. It was after a long pause that Willie said:
'Ye'll be for hame as sune as we get to Glesca—eh?'
'Ay. . . . An' you'll be for yer aunt's—eh?'
'Ay,' Willie sighed, and lowering his voice, said: 'What'll ye dae if they laugh at ye?'
'They'll no laugh,' Macgregor replied, some indignation in his assurance.
'H'm! . . . Maybe she'll laugh at ye.'
'Nae fears!' But the confident tone was overdone. Macgregor, after all, was not quite sure about Christina. She laughed at so many things. He was to meet her at seven, and of late he had lost sleep wondering how she would receive his first appearance in the kilt. He dreaded her chaff more than any horrors of war that lay before him.
'Aw, she'll laugh, sure enough,' croaked Willie. 'I wud ha'e naething to dae wi' the weemen if I was you. Ye canna trust them,' added this misogynist of twenty summers.
Macgregor took hold of himself. 'What'll ye dae if yer aunt laughs?' he quietly demanded.