'Weel, Maggie, I apologize for whatever I said, whether I said it or no. I'm no ma usual the nicht, so ye maun try for to excuse me. I certainly never meant for to hurt yer feelin's.'
She dropped the handkerchief. 'Ha'e ye got a sair heid?'
'Ay—something like that. So let me doon easy.'
She slid her hand under his which was overhanging the division between the seats.
'I'm sorry I was silly, but I'm that tender-hearted, I was feart ye
was takin' yer fun aff me. I'm awfu' vexed ye've got a sair heid.
I suppose it's the heat. Ony objection to me callin' ye
Macgreegor?'
'That's a' richt,' he replied kindly but uneasily.
Her fingers were round his, and seemingly she forgot they were there, even when the lights went up. And he hadn't the courage —shall we say?—to withdraw them.
The succeeding film depicted a throbbing love story.
'This is mair in oor line,' she remarked confidentially.
Every time the sentiment rose to a high temperature, which was pretty often, Macgregor felt a warm pressure on his fingers. He had never before had a similar experience, not even in the half-forgotten days of Jessie Mary; for Jessie Mary had not become the pursuer until he had betrayed anxiety to escape from her toils. And he had been only seventeen then.