Willie grinned at his friend. 'What dae ye think o' fat Maggie?' he said.
'Naething,' answered Mac, and refused to be drawn into further conversation.
Within half an hour she was back, flushed and bright of eye. She had on a pink print, crisp and fresh, a flowery hat, gloves carefully mended, neat shoes and transparent stockings.
'By Jings, ye're dressed to kill at a thoosan' yairds!' Willie observed.
Ignoring him, she looked anxiously for the other's approval.
'D'ye like hot pies?' he inquired, rising and stretching himself.
An hour later, in the picture house a heartrending, soul thrilling melodrama was at its last gasp. The long suffering heroine was in the arms of the long misjudged, misfortune-ridden, but ever faithful hero.
'Oh, lovely!' murmured Maggie.
Macgregor said nothing, but his eyes were moist. He may, or may not, have been conscious of a plump, warm, thinly-clad shoulder close against his arm.
Hero and heroine vanished. The lights went up. Macgregor blew his nose, then looked past the fat girl to make a scoffing remark to Willie.